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in preparing that which later culminated in the Republican Party. Mr. Whittier was a voluminous writer and he has left a colossal monument which time will never efface.

H. M.

"HE year of 1892 has come and gone, and it


He brought us wonders of the new and old.

We shared all climes with him. The Arab's tent

To him its story-telling secret lent,
And, pleased, we listened to the tales he told.
His task, beguiled with songs that shall endure,

In manly, honest thoroughness he wrought;

From humble home-lays to the heights of thought Slowly he climbed, but every step was sure. How, with the generous pride that friendship hath,

We, who so loved him, saw at last the crown

Of civic honor on his brows pressed down; Rejoiced, and knew not that the gift was death.

And now for him, whose praise in deafened ears Two nations speak, we answer but with tears.

-Bayard Taylor


taken from the world of letters four great poets; Whitman, Lowell, Whittier and Tennyson, each supreme in his own realm of versification. Of this notable quartette, Lowell and Tennyson more nearly resembled each other, while nothing could exceed the dissimilarity existing between Whittier and Whitman. Indeed, some have even gone so far as to say Whitman was not a poet. Poetical prose, is the title they bestow on his writings. Whittier's position, and his right to the bay have, however, never been questioned. His place in the hearts of the American people is unique, and can only find a parallel with that of Helen Hunt. Lowell, Longfellow, Holmes, and others of our poets are admired for the products of their genius, and a great amount of respect is felt towards the possessor of so manifestly great capabilities; but with Whittier, love mingles and even predominates in the tribute paid to him, and as the years roll on apace, it will come to be said how we admired those illustrious ones of the past, but how we loved the “Good Gray Poet."

John Greenleaf Whittier was born in Haverhill, Mass., December 17th, 1807. His parents were members of the Society of Friends, and to their beliefs and principles he adhered throughout his life. His American ancestry dates from the year 1638. Whittier was born on a farm, and his boyhood occupations were such as farmer's boys usually engage in. He learned shoemaking from one of the farm hands and by that means secured enough money to enable himself to attend Haverhillacademy six months during 1829. This served as a polishing to his previous education and he then began teaching in the district school of West Amesbury, which supplied him with the means for another six months in the academy. In his nineteenth year he began contributing poems, anonymously, to the Free Press, then edited by W. L. Garrison. By this means an acquaintance with Mr. Garrison was established, and thus was gained another pen to espouse the cause of the abolitionists. His father died and for five years Mr. Whittier conducted the farm. In 1835 he was sent to the general court from Haverhill. From the year 1829 he edited at different periods, the American Manufacturer, Boston, the Haverhill Gazette, the New England Weekly Review, Hartford, Conn., the Pennsylvania Freeman, Philadelphia, and the Middlesex Standard, Lowell, Mass. He was fearless in doing what he believed to be right, and he was a strong factor

His still the keen analysis

Of men and moods, electric wit, Free play of mirth and tenderness

To heal the slightest wound from it.
And his the pathos touching all

Lifes, sorrows and regrets,
It's hopes and fears, it's final call

And rest beneath the violets.
His sparkling surface scarce betrays

The thoughtful tide beneath it rolled,
The wishes of the latter days
And tender memories of the old.

-Our Autocrat.

Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here

Could be for thee a meet reward; Thine is a treasure far more dear,Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear

Of living mortal heard The joys prepared, the promised bliss above, The holy presence of Eternal Love!

- The Female Martyr. PATIENCE.

There's quiet in that Angel's glance,
There's rest in his still countenance!
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,
Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear
But ills and woes he may not cure
He kindly trains us to endure.

- The Angel of Patience.

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He comes! he comes! the Frost Spirit comes,

and the quiet lake shall feel The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to

the skater's heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks,

or sang to the leaning grass, Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

-The Frost Spirit.

Oh! woman wronged can cherish hate
More deep and dark than manhood may.



“O lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer lustre

flings, Than the diamond flash of the jeweled crown on

the lofty brow of kings,A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue

shall not decay, Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a blessing on thy way!”

-The Vaudois Teacher.

Oh! when the soul, once pure and high,
Is stricken down from Virtue's sky,
As with the downcast star of morn,
Some gems of light are with it drawn,
And through its night of darkness, play
Some tokens of its primal day,
Some lofty feelings linger still;

The strength to dare, the nerve to meet

Whatever threatens with defeat
Its all indomitable will;
But lacks the mean of mind and heart,

Though eager for the gains of crime,

Oft, at his chosen place and time, The strength to bear his evil part, And, shielded by his very vice, Escapes from crime by cowardice.

-Ibid. SPRING.


“Ah, the cloud is dark, and day by day

I am moving thither;
I must pass beneath it on my way;
God pity me!—WHITHER ?”

- My Soul and I. PRESENT.

The Present, the Present is all thou hast

For thy sure possessing;
Like the patriarch's angel hold it fast
Till it gives its blessing.


'Tis springtime on the eastern hills!
Like torrents gush the summer rills;
Through winter's moss and dry dead leaves
The bladed grass revives and lives,
Pushes the mouldering waste away,
And glimpses to the April day.
In kindly shower and sunshine bud
The branches of the dull gray wood;
Out from its sunned and sheltered nooks
The blue eye of the violet looks;

The southwest wind is warmly blowing,
And odors from the springing grass,
The pine-tree and the sassafras,
Are with it on its errands going.



Like warp and woof all destinies

Are woven fast,
Linked in sympathy like the keys

Of an organ vast.
Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar;

Break but one
Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar
Through all will run.


" in her meek, forgiving eye

There was a brightness not of mirth, A light whose clear intensity

Was borrowed not of earth.


Along her cheek a deepening red,
Told where the feverish hectic fed;

And yet, each fatal token gave
To the mild beauty of her face
A newer and a dearer grace,

Unwarning of the grave.
'Twas like the hue which Autumn gives
To yonder changed and dying leaves,

Breathed over by her frosty breath;
Scarce can the gazer feel that this
Is but the spoiler's treacherous kiss,
The mocking-smile of death!


Ask why the graceful grape entwines
The rough oak with her arm of vines;
And why the gray rock's rugged cheek
The soft lips of the mosses seek;
Why, with wise instinct, Nature seems
To harmonize her wide extremes,
Linking the stronger with the weak,
The haughty with the soft and meek!


HOME. The hills are dearest which our childish feet Have climbed the earliest; and the streams most

sweet Are ever those at which our young lips drank, Stooped to their waters o'er the grassy bank. Midst the cold, dreary, sea-watch, home's hearth

light Shines round the helmsman plunging through the

night; And still, with inward eye, the traveler sees In close, dark, stranger streets, his native trees.

-Ibid. MAMMON.

Fond longings dimly understood,
The glow of passion's quickening blood,
And cherished fantasies which press
The young lip with a dream's caress,-
The heart's forecast and prophecy
Took form and life before my eye,
Seen in the glance which met my own,
Heard in the soft and pleading tone,
Felt in the arms around me cast,
And warm heart-pulses beating fast.
Ah! scarcely yet to God above
With deeper trust, with stronger love,
Has prayerful saint his meek heart lent,
Or cloistered nun at twilight bent,
Than I, before a human shrine,
As mortal and as frail as mine,
With heart, and soul, and mind, and form,
Knelt madly to a fellow worm.


Tell us not of banks and tariffs; cease your paltry

pedler cries; Shall the good State sink her honor that your

gambling stocks may rise? Would ye barter man for cotton? That your gains

may sum up higher, Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pass our children

through the fire ? Is the dollar only real? God and truth and right a

dream? Weighed against your lying ledgers must our manhood kick the beam ?

- The Pine-tree. GARRISON.

Brutal alike in deed and word,

With callous heart and hand of strife, How like a fiend may man be made, Plying the foul and monstrous trade

Whose harvest-field is human life, Whose sickle is the reeking sword!


The sweet songs, Simple and beautiful as Truth and Nature, Of whose whitened locks on Rydal Mount Are lifted yet by morning breezes blowing From the green hills, immortal in his lays.

- The Bridal of Pennacook.

Champion of those who groan beneath

Oppression's iron hand;
In view of penury, hate and death,

I see thee fearless stand.
Still bearing up the lofty brow,

In the steadfast strength of truth,
In manhood sealing well the vow
And promise of thy youth.

-To W. L. G.



The Indian's heart is hard and cold,

It closes darkly o'er its care,
And formed in Nature's sternest mould
Is slow to feel, and strong to bear.


Oh, vain the vow, and vain the strife!

How vain do all things seem! My soul is in the past, and life To-day is but a dream !

- The Knight of St. John.


The simple burst of tenderest feeling
From sad hearts worn by evil-dealing,
For blessing on the hand of healing, -
Better than Glory's pomp will be
That green and blessed spot to me,
A palm-shade in Eternity!


Watching on the hills of Faith;
Listening what the spirit saith,
Of the dim-seen light afar,
Growing like a nearing star.
God's interpreter art thou,
To the waiting ones below;
'Twixt them and its light midway
Heralding the better day,-
Catching gleams of temple spires,
Hearing notes of angel choirs,
Where, as yet unseen of them,
Comes the New Jerusalem!
- The Curse of the Charter-breakers.


Oh, the outward hath gone! but in glory and power,
The SPIRIT surviveth the things of the hour;
Unchanged, undecaying its Pentecost flame
On the heart's secret altar is burning the same!

- Palestine. SHIPLEY.

Thank God! that I have lived to see the time

When the great truth begins at last to find

An utterance from the deep heart of mankind, Earnest and clear, that ALL REVENGE IS

That man is holier than a creed;—that all

Restraint upon him must consult his good,
Hope's sunshine linger on his prison wall,

And Love look in upon his solitude.
The beautiful lesson which our Savior taught
Through long, dark centuries its way hath wrought
Into the common mind and popular thought;
And words, to which by Galilee's lake shore
The humble fishers listened, with hushed oar,
Have found an echo in the general heart,
And of the public faith become a living part.

All parties feared him: each in turn

Beheld its schemes disjointed,
As right or left his fatal glance

And spectral finger pointed.
Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down

With trenchant wit unsparing,
And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand
The robe Pretence was wearing.

-Randolph of Roanoke.

Gentlest of spirits! not for thee

Our tears are shed, our sighs are given;
Why mourn to know thou art a free

Partaker of the joys of Heaven?
Finished thy work, and kept thy faith
In Christian firmness unto death;
And beautiful as sky and earth,

When autumn's sun is downward going,
The blessèd memory of thy worth
Around thy place of slumber glowing!

- To the Memory of Thomas Shipley.



What matters it! a few years more,
Life's surge so restless heretofore
Shall break upon the unknown shore!
In that far land shall disappear
The shadows which we follow here,
The mist-wreaths of our atmosphere!

If through the wreck of wasted powers,
Of garlands wreathed from Folly's bowers,
Of idle aims and misspent hours,
The eye can note one sacred spot
By Pride and Self profanèd not,
A green place in the waste of thought,

Where deed or word hath rendered less “The sum of human wretchedness,"

And Gratitude looks forth to bless,

God be praised for every instinct which rebels

against a lot Where the brute survives the human, and man's

upright form is not! As the serpent-like bejuco winds his spiral fold on

fold Round the tall and stately ceiba, till it withers in

his hold,Slow decays the forest monarch, closer girds the

fell embrace, Till the tree is seen no longer, and the vine is in its

place, So a base and bestial nature round the vassal's

manhood twines, And the spirit wastes beneath it, like the ceiba choked with vines.

- The Slaves of Martinique.

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