Poems by John Greenleaf Whittier

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The Battle Autumn of 1862

The flags of war like storm birds fly,

The charging trumpets blow;

Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,

No earthquake strives below.

And, calm and patient, Nature keeps

Her ancient promises well,

Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps,

The battle's breath of hell.

John Greenleaf Whittier

The Pipes At Lucknow

An incident of the Sepoy mutiny

Pipes of the misty moorlands,

Voice of the glens and hills;

The droning of the torrents,

The treble of the rills!

Not the braes of bloom and heather,

Nor the mountains dark with rain,

Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,

John Greenleaf Whittier

Hampton Beach

THE SUNLIGHT glitters keen and bright,

Where, miles away,

Lies stretching to my dazzled sight

A luminous belt, a misty light,

Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy gray.

The tremulous shadow of the Sea!

Against its ground

Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree,

John Greenleaf Whittier

Banished from Massachusetts

Over the threshold of his pleasant home

Set in green clearings passed the exiled Friend,

In simple trust, misdoubting not the end.

"Dear heart of mine!" he said, "the time has come

To trust the Lord for shelter." One long gaze

The goodwife turned on each familiar thing,—

The lowing kine, the orchard blossoming,

The open door that showed the hearth-fire's blaze,—

John Greenleaf Whittier

Stanzas for the Times

Is this the land our fathers loved,

The freedom which they toiled to win?

Is this the soil whereon they moved?

Are these the graves they slumber in?

Are we the sons by whom are borne

The mantles which the dead have worn?

And shall we crouch above these graves,

With craven soul and fettered lip?

John Greenleaf Whittier

My Triumph

The autumn-time has come;

On woods that dream of bloom,

And over purpling vines,

The low sun fainter shines.

The aster-flower is failing,

The hazel's gold is paling;

Yet overhead more near

The eternal stars appear!

John Greenleaf Whittier

Barclay Of Ury

Up the streets of Aberdeen,

By the kirk and college green,

Rode the Laird of Ury;

Close behind him, close beside,

Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,

Pressed the mob in fury.

Flouted him the drunken churl,

Jeered at him the serving-girl,

John Greenleaf Whittier

Cassandra Southwick

To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise today,

From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil away;

Yes, he who cooled the furnace around the faithful three,

And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His handmaid free!

Last night I saw the sunset melt though my prison bars,

Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of stars;

In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night-time,

My grated casement whitened with autumn's early rime.

John Greenleaf Whittier

A Legacy

Friend of my many years!

When the great silence falls, at last, on me,

Let me not leave, to pain and sadden thee,

A memory of tears,

But pleasant thoughts alone.

Of one who was thy friendship's honored guest

And drank the wine of consolation pressed

From sorrows of thy own.

John Greenleaf Whittier

The Frost Spirit

He comes, - he comes, - the Frost Spirit comes!

You may trace his footsteps now

On the naked woods and the blasted fields

And the brown hill's withered brow.

He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees

Where their pleasant green came forth,

And the winds, which follow wherever he goes,

Have shaken them down to earth.

John Greenleaf Whittier

Skipper Ireson's Ride

Of all the rides since the birth of time,

Told in story or sung in rhyme,—

On Apuleius's Golden Ass,

Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,

Witch astride of a human back,

Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,—

The strangest ride that ever was sped

Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead!

John Greenleaf Whittier

The Vaudois Teacher

"O Lady fair, these silks of mine

are beautiful and rare,—

The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's

queen might wear;

And my pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with whose

radiant light they vie;

I have brought them with me a weary way,—will my

gentle lady buy?"

John Greenleaf Whittier