TO WHITTIER

New England's poet, rich in love as years,

Her hills and valleys praise thee, her swift brooks

Dance in thy verse; to her grave sylvan nooks

Thy steps allure us, which the wood-thrush hears

As maids their lovers’, and no treason fears;

Through thee her Merrimacs and Agiochooks

And many a name uncouth win gracious looks,

Sweetly familiar to both Englands’ ears:

Peaceful by birthright, as a virgin lake,

The lily's anchorage, which no eyes behold

Save those of stars, yet for thy brother's sake

That lay in bonds, thou blewst a blast as bold

As that wherewith the heart of Roland brake,

Far heard across the New World and the Old.