Poems by John Greenleaf Whittier

All Poems Original Poems Translations

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The Barefoot Boy

. Blessings on thee, little man,

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!

With thy turned-up pantaloons,

And thy merry whistled tunes;

With thy red lip, redder still

Kissed by strawberries on the hill;

With the sunshine on thy face,

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;

John Greenleaf Whittier

What the Birds Said

The birds against the April wind

Flew northward, singing as they flew;

They sang, "The land we leave behind

Has swords for corn-blades, blood for dew."

"O wild-birds, flying from the South,

What saw and heard ye, gazing down?"

"We saw the mortar's upturned mouth,

The sickened camp, the blazing town!

John Greenleaf Whittier

An Autograph

I write my name as one,

On sands by waves o'errun

Or winter's frosted pane,

Traces a record vain.

Oblivion's blankness claims

Wiser and better names,

And well my own may pass

As from the strand or glass.

John Greenleaf Whittier

The Pumpkin

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,

The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,

And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,

With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,

Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,

While he waited to know that his warning was true,

And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain

For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.

John Greenleaf Whittier

A Song Inscribed To The Fremont Clubs

BENEATH thy skies, November!

Thy skies of cloud and rain,

Around our blazing camp-fires

We close our ranks again.

Then sound again the bugles,

Call the muster-roll anew;

If months have well-nigh won the field,

What may not four years do?

John Greenleaf Whittier

Disarmament

"Put up the sword!" The voice of Christ once more

Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar,

O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reaped

And left dry ashes; over trenches heaped

With nameless dead; o'er cities starving slow

Under a rain of fire; through wards of woe

Down which a groaning diapason runs

From tortured brothers, husbands, lovers, sons

John Greenleaf Whittier

Laus Deo

It is done!

Clang of bell and roar of gun

Send the tidings up and down.

How the belfries rock and reel!

How the great guns, peal on peal,

Fling the joy from town to town!

Ring, O bells!

Every stroke exulting tells

John Greenleaf Whittier

A Song For The Time

UP, laggards of Freedom! — our free flag is cast

To the blaze of the sun and the wings of the blast;

Will ye turn from a struggle so bravely begun,

From a foe that is breaking, a field that's half won?

Whoso loves not his kind, and who fears not the Lord,

Let him join that foe's service, accursed and abhorred!

Let him do his base will, as the slave only can, —

Let him put on the bloodhound, and put off the Man!

John Greenleaf Whittier

At Port Royal

The tent-lights glimmer on the land,

The ship-lights on the sea;

The night-wind smooths with drifting sand

Our track on lone Tybee.

At last our grating keels outslide,

Our good boats forward swing;

And while we ride the land-locked tide,

Our negroes row and sing.

John Greenleaf Whittier

A Letter

'TIS over, Moses! All is lost!

I hear the bells a-ringing;

Of Pharaoh and his Red Sea host

I hear the Free-Wills singing.*

We're routed, Moses, horse and foot,

If there be truth in figures,

With Federal Whigs in hot pursuit,

And Hale, and all the "niggers."

John Greenleaf Whittier

A Summons

MEN of the North-land! where's the manly 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 strong manhood of our souls so low,

That Mammon's lure or Party's wile can win us

To silence now?

John Greenleaf Whittier

Our River

FOR A SUMMER FESTIVAL AT "THE LAURELS" ON THE MERRIMAC.

Once more on yonder laurelled height

The summer flowers have budded;

Once more with summer's golden light

The vales of home are flooded;

And once more, by the grace of Him

Of every good the Giver,

We sing upon its wooded rim

John Greenleaf Whittier