of poets, who sang their spirited songs in defense of their country's rights, and who were ready to use harp or sword, as the occasion demanded. We know that his lightning-tongued stanzas are familiar to all, but in this sketch we must repeat two or three as specimens of his style, or, in truth, his different styles. To us, one of his loftiest, grandest poems is, that written on the adoption of Pinckney's resolutions in the house of representatives, and the passage of Calhoun's "bill of abominations," in the senate. Some of the stanzas for strength and impassioned beauty are unsurpassed. They stir a man's blood like a trumpetcall to battle. We quote the poem entire:

"Now, by our fathers' ashes! where's the spirit
Of the true hearted and the unshackled gone!
Sons of old freemen, do we but inherit

Their names alone?

"Is the old Pilgrim spirit quenched within us?
Stoops the proud manhood of our souls so low,
That mammon's lure or party's will can win us
To silence now?

"No! when our land to ruin's brink is verging,
In God's name let us speak while there is time!
Now, when the padlock for our lips is forging,
Silence is crime!

"What! shall we henceforth humbly ask as favors
Rights all our own? In madness shall we barter
For treacherous peace the freedom nature gave us,
God and our charter?

"Here shall the statesman seek the free to fetter?
Here lynch law light its lurid fires on high?
And, in the church, their proud and skilled abettor,
Make truth a lie?

"Torture the pages of the hallowed bible,
To sanction crime, and robbery, and blood?
And, in oppression's hateful service, libel
Both man and God?

"Shall our New England stand erect no longer,
But stoop in chains upon her downward way,
Thicker to gather on her limbs and stronger,
Day after day?

"Oh, no; methinks from all her wild, green mountains-
From valleys where her slumbering fathers lie,
From her blue rivers, and her welling fountains,
And clear, cold sky-

"From her rough coast, and isles, which hungry ocean Gnaws with his surges-from the fisher's skiff, With white sail swaying to the billows' motion,

Round rock and cliff —

"From the free fireside of her unbought farmerFrom her free laborer at his loom and wheel

From the brown smith-shop, where, beneath the hammer Rings the red steel

"From each and all, if God hath not forsaken

Our land, and left us to an evil choice,

Loud as the summer thunderbolt shall waken

A people's voice!

"Startling and stern, the northern winds shall bear it

Over Potomac's to St. Mary's wave;

And buried freedom shall awake to hear it,

Within her grave.

"Oh, let that voice go forth! The bondman sighing
By Santee's wave, in Mississippi's cane,

Shall feel the hope within his bosom dying,
Revive again.

"Let it go forth! The millions who are gazing
Sadly upon us from afar, shall smile,

And unto God devout thanksgiving raising,
Bless us the while.

"Oh, for your ancient freedom, pure and holy,
For a deliverance of a groaning earth,

For the wronged captive, bleeding, crush'd, and lowly,
Let it go forth!

"Sons of the best of fathers! will ye falter
With all they left ye peril'd and at stake?
Ho! once again on freedom's holy altar
The fire awake!

"Prayer-strengthen'd for the trial come together,
Put on the harness for the moral fight,

And, with the blessing of your heavenly Father,
Maintain the right!"

Another of Whittier's grand poems is that written after a meeting had been held in Faneuil Hall, by certain citizens of Boston, to suppress the freedom of speech. We will quote it entire; but, before doing so, must relate an anecdote connected with this poem. A dear friend of ours, now, alas, beneath the sod, was a most passionate admirer of Whittier's poetry. To him there was no other American poet living, and there could be no other. Possessed of lofty enthusi

from

asm, he revelled in some of Whittier's magnificent songs, and as his life was often cast far away his native New England, he committed to memory all of Whittier's finest poems, so that he could repeat them at pleasure. It was his habit to do this often to others, or alone in a meditative mood to himself. Our paths chanced once to lie in one direction, across the Atlantic, and one starry night we sat late upon the quarter-deck listening to his recitation of his favorite poems. Appreciating every shade of the poet's thought, sharing his enthusiasm, by constant practice he had acquired the art of reading very finely, and it was a great treat to hear him. By thinking often of each poem, our friend, having a brisk imagination, had acquired the habit of prefacing each recitation with a story of the author, or the peculiar occasion which called the poem forth. We know not, as he pretended, they were all in every particular true, but we never shall forget the impression which the poem we quote below ("Stanzas for the Times,") made upon a small, English audience, after his prefatory story. As we copy the poem, we will venture also the anecdote, not vouching, however, for its exact truth. It was substantially as follows:

Whittier, at the time this poem was written, was a young, modest man, little used to city customs-in fact, fragrant of clover blossoms, unsophisticated, a pure, young, country Quaker. He had heard but

little of the infamous conduct of the wealthy and respectable supporters of slavery, living as he did in a quiet, country town. One day his father sent him to Boston on business. He came into the city in his father's plain carriage, dressed in the sober, homely, Quaker garb, and put up at a "farmer's hotel." He went out into the streets, and very soon noticed that there was a great gathering of excited citizens. The faces of the multitude wore a demoniac expression; they seemed to be hungry for the blood of some person or persons. His thought was that some horrible murder had been perpetrated, and that the indignation of the people could not be restrained from summary justice; but if even that were the case, he was horror-struck at their eagerness for vindictive punishment. He hastily retraced his steps, and sought information from his landlord. The reply to his questions was, that the people were on the scent of an abolitionist—were trying to kill a citizen of Boston for asserting the simple rights of manhood. Was it indeed so? Could it be so? "Yes, verily so." The shock was lightning-like; his pure nature could not easily believe it, and when he did, he uttered no fiery words, but went sadly again into the street. When evening came, he went to that "cradle of liberty," old Faneuil Hall, having heard that the enemies of freedom would hold a meeting there that night. He was a silent, shocked spectator of that