John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Personal PoemsTo , with a Copy of Woolmans Journal
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Shading o’er thy dreamy eye,
Floating on thy thoughtful forehead
Cloud wreaths of its sky.
Joy with them should still abide,—
Instinct take the place of Duty,
Love, not Reason, guide.
Kindly beckoning back the Old,
Turning, with the gift of Midas,
All things into gold.
Wearing even a welcome guise,
As, when some bright lake lies open
To the sunny skies,
Every light cloud floating on,
Glitters like that flashing mirror
In the self-same sun.
Something like a shadow lies;
And a serious soul is looking
From thy earnest eyes.
Through the forms of outward things,
Seeking for the subtle essence,
And the hidden springs.
Hath thy wakeful vision seen,
Farther than the narrow present
Have thy journeyings been.
Heard the solemn steps of Time,
And the low mysterious voices
Of another clime.
Hath upon thy spirit pressed,—
Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer,
Find no place of rest:
That which Zeno heard with awe,
And the star-rapt Zoroaster
In his night-watch saw.
Of the dim, uncertain Past,
Moving to the dark still shadows
O’er the Future cast,
Thrilled within thy heart of youth,
With a deep and strong beseeching:
What and where is Truth?
Whence the ancient life hath fled,
Idle faith unknown to action,
Dull and cold and dead.
Only wake a quiet scorn,—
Not from these thy seeking spirit
Hath its answer drawn.
On thy mother Nature’s breast,
Thou, methinks, art vainly seeking
Truth, and peace, and rest.
Thou art throwing Fancy’s veil,
Light and soft as woven moonbeams,
Beautiful and frail!
Rocks of sin and wastes of woe,
Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble,
And cool fountains flow.
From the earth and from the sky,
And to thee the hills and waters
And the stars reply.
Hath no outward origin;
More than Nature’s many voices
May be heard within.
Questioned earth and sea and sky,
And the dusty tomes of learning
And old poesy.
More than outward Nature taught;
More than blest the poet’s vision
Or the sage’s thought.
Of a calm and waiting frame,
Light and wisdom as from Heaven
To the seeker came.
Doth that inward answer tend,
But to works of love and duty
As our being’s end;
Length of face, and solemn tone,
But to Faith, in daily striving
And performance shown.
Of a spirit which within
Wrestles with familiar evil
And besetting sin;
Steady heart, and weapon strong,
In the power of truth assailing
Every form of wrong.
Is the track of Woolman’s feet!
And his brief and simple record
How serenely sweet!
Light the earthling never knew,
Freshening all its dark waste places
As with Hermon’s dew.
All which sainted Guion sought,
Or the blue-eyed German Rahel
Half-unconscious taught:
Such as Shelley dreamed of, shed
Living warmth and starry brightness
Round that poor man’s head.
Not a poet’s dream alone,
But a presence warm and real,
Seen and felt and known.
Moulders with the steel it swung,
When the name of seer and poet
Dies on Memory’s tongue,
Round that meek and suffering one,—
Glorious, like the seer-seen angel
Standing in the sun!
What its pages say to thee;
Blessed as the hand of healing
May its lesson be.
Yearnings for a higher good,
For the fount of living waters
And diviner food;
Feels its meek and still rebuke,
Quailing like the eye of Peter
From the Just One’s look!
What the Inward Teacher saith,
Listening with a willing spirit
And a childlike faith,—
Who, himself but frail and weak,
Would at least the highest welfare
Of another seek;
It may seem to other eyes,
Yet may prove an angel holy
In a pilgrim’s guise.