Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/104

72  Of all his labors no trace remains Save the bondman lifting his hands in chains. The woof he wove in the righteous warp Of freedom-loving Oglethorpe Clothes with curses the goodly land, Changes its greenness and bloom to sand; And a century’s lapse reveals once more The slave-ship stealing to Georgia’s shore. Father of Light! how blind is he Who sprinkles the altar he rears to Thee With the blood and tears of humanity!

He erred: shall we count His gifts as naught? Was the work of God in him unwrought? The servant may through his deafness err, And blind may be God’s messenger; But the errand is sure they go upon,— The word is spoken, the deed is done. Was the Hebrew temple less fair and good That Solomon bowed to gods of wood? For his tempted heart and wandering feet, Were the songs of David less pure and sweet? So in light and shadow the preacher went, God’s erring and human instrument; And the hearts of the people where he passed Swayed as the reeds sway in the blast, Under the spell of a voice which took In its compass the flow of Siloa’s brook, And the mystical chime of the bells of gold On the ephod’s hem of the priest of old,— Now the roll of thunder, and now the awe Of the trumpet heard in the Mount of Law.

A solemn fear on the listening crowd Fell like the shadow of a cloud. The sailor reeling from out the ships Whose masts stood thick in the river-slips Felt the jest and the curse die on his lips. Listened the fisherman rude and hard, The calker rough from the builder’s yard; The man of the market left his load, The teamster leaned on his bending goad, The maiden, and youth beside her, felt Their hearts in a closer union melt, And saw the flowers of their love in bloom Down the endless vistas of life to come. Old age sat feebly brushing away From his ears the scanty locks of gray; And careless boyhood, living the free Unconscious life of bird and tree, Suddenly wakened to a sense Of sin and its guilty consequence. It was as if an angel’s voice Called the listeners up for their final choice; As if a strong hand rent apart The veils of sense from soul and heart, Showing in light ineffable The joys of heaven and woes of hell! All about in the misty air The hills seemed kneeling in silent prayer; The rustle of leaves, the moaning sedge, The water’s lap on its gravelled edge, The wailing pines, and, far and faint, The wood-dove’s note of sad complaint,— To the solemn voice of the preacher lent An undertone as of low lament; And the rote of the sea from its sandy coast, On the easterly wind, now heard, now lost, Seemed the murmurous sound of the judgment host.

Yet wise men doubted, and good men wept, As that storm of passion above them swept, And, comet-like, adding flame to flame, The priests of the new Evangel came,— Davenport, flashing upon the crowd, Charged like summer’s electric cloud, Now holding the listener still as death With terrible warnings under breath, Now shouting for joy, as if he viewed The vision of Heaven’s beatitude! And Celtic Tennant, his long coat bound Like a monk’s with leathern girdle round, Wild with the toss of unshorn hair, And wringing of hands, and eyes aglare, Groaning under the world’s despair! Grave pastors, grieving their flocks to lose, Prophesied to the empty pews That gourds would wither, and mushrooms die, And noisiest fountains run soonest dry, Like the spring that gushed in Newbury Street, Under the tramp of the earthquake’s feet, A silver shaft in the air and light, For a single day, then lost in night, Leaving only, its place to tell, Sandy fissure and sulphurous smell. With zeal wing-clipped and white-heat cool, Moved by the spirit in grooves of rule, No longer harried, and cropped, and fleeced, Flogged by sheriff and cursed by priest, But by wiser counsels left at ease To settle quietly on his lees, And, self-concentred, to count as done