Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/141

Rh Still flow of water, deep repose of wood That, with a sense of loving Fatherhood And childlike trust in the Eternal Good,

Softened all hearts, and dulled the edge of hate, Hushed strife, and taught impatient zeal to wait The slow assurance of the better state?

Who knows what goadings in their sterner way O’er jagged ice, relieved by granite gray, Blew round the men of Massachusetts Bay?

What hate of heresy the east-wind woke? What hints of pitiless power and terror spoke In waves that on their iron coast-line broke?

Be it as it may: within the Land of Penn The sectary yielded to the citizen, And peaceful dwelt the many-creeded men.

Peace brooded over all. No trumpet stung The air to madness, and no steeple flung Alarums down from bells at midnight rung.

The land slept well. The Indian from his face Washed all his war-paint off, and in the place Of battle-marches sped the peaceful chase,

Or wrought for wages at the white man’s side,— Giving to kindness what his native pride And lazy freedom to all else denied.

And well the curious scholar loved the old Traditions that his swarthy neighbors told By wigwam-fires when nights were growing cold,

Discerned the fact round which their fancy drew Its dreams, and held their childish faith more true To God and man than half the creeds he knew.

The desert blossomed round him; wheat-fields rolled Beneath the warm wind waves of green and gold; The planted ear returned its hundred-fold.

Great clusters ripened in a warmer sun Than that which by the Rhine stream shines upon The purpling hillsides with low vines o’errun.

About each rustic porch the humming-bird Tried with light bill, that scarce a petal stirred, The Old World flowers to virgin soil transferred;

And the first-fruits of pear and apple, bending The young boughs down, their gold and russet blending, Made glad his heart, familiar odors lending

To the fresh fragrance of the birch and pine, Life-everlasting, bay, and eglantine, And all the subtle scents the woods combine.

Fair First-Day mornings, steeped in summer calm, Warm, tender, restful, sweet with woodland balm, Came to him, like some mother-hallowed psalm

To the tired grinder at the noisy wheel Of labor, winding off from memory’s reel A golden thread of music. With no peal

Of bells to call them to the house of praise, The scattered settlers through green forest-ways Walked meeting-ward. In reverent amaze

The Indian trapper saw them, from the dim Shade of the alders on the rivulet’s rim, Seek the Great Spirit’s house to talk with Him.

There, through the gathered stillness multiplied And made intense by sympathy, outside The sparrows sang, and the gold-robin cried,