Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/138

106  Yet who shall guess his bitter grief who lends His life to some great cause, and finds his friends Shame or betray it for their private ends?

How felt the Master when his chosen strove In childish folly for their seats above; And that fond mother, blinded by her love,

Besought him that her sons, beside his throne, Might sit on either hand? Amidst his own A stranger oft, companionless and lone,

God’s priest and prophet stands. The martyr’s pain Is not alone from scourge and cell and chain; Sharper the pang when, shouting in his train,

His weak disciples by their lives deny The loud hosannas of their daily cry, And make their echo of his truth a lie.

His forest home no hermit’s cell he found, Guests, motley-minded, drew his hearth around, And held armed truce upon its neutral ground.

There Indian chiefs with battle-bows unstrung, Strong, hero-limbed, like those whom Homer sung, Pastorius fancied, when the world was young,

Came with their tawny women, lithe and tall, Like bronzes in his friend Von Rodeck’s hall, Comely, if black, and not unpleasing all.

There hungry folk in homespun drab and gray Drew round his board on Monthly Meeting day, Genial, half merry in their friendly way.

Or, haply, pilgrims from the Fatherland, Weak, timid, homesick, slow to understand The New World’s promise, sought his helping hand.

Or painful Kelpius from his hermit den By Wissahickon, maddest of good men, Dreamed o’er the Chiliast dreams of Petersen.

Deep in the woods, where the small river slid Snake-like in shade, the Helmstadt Mystic hid, Weird as a wizard, over arts forbid,

Reading the books of Daniel and of John, And Behmen’s Morning-Redness, through the Stone Of Wisdom, vouchsafed to his eyes alone.

Whereby he read what man ne’er read before, And saw the visions man shall see no more, Till the great angel, striding sea and shore,

Shall bid all flesh await, on land or ships, The warning trump of the Apocalypse, Shattering the heavens before the dread eclipse.

Or meek-eyed Mennonist his bearded chin Leaned o’er the gate; or Ranter, pure within, Aired his perfection in a world of sin.

Or, talking of old home scenes, Op der Graaf Teased the low back-log with his shodden staff, Till the red embers broke into a laugh

And dance of flame, as if they fain would cheer The rugged face, half tender, half austere, Touched with the pathos of a homesick tear!

Or Sluyter, saintly familist, whose word As law the Brethren of the Manor heard, Announced the speedy terrors of the Lord,

And turned, like Lot at Sodom, from his race, Above a wrecked world with complacent face Riding secure upon his plank of grace!

Haply, from Finland’s birchen groves exiled,