Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/420

388   Think ye the notes of holy song
 * On Milton’s tuneful ear have died?

Think ye that Raphael’s angel throng
 * Has vanished from his side?

Oh no!—We live our life again;
 * Or warmly touched, or coldly dim,

The pictures of the Past remain,—
 * Man’s works shall follow him!

page of thine I cannot trace The cold and heartless commonplace, A statue’s fixed and marble grace.

For ever as these lines I penned, Still with the thought of thee will blend That of some loved and common friend.

Who in life’s desert track has made His pilgrim tent with mine, or strayed Beneath the same remembered shade.

And hence my pen unfettered moves In freedom which the heart approves, The negligence which friendship loves.

And wilt thou prize my poor gift less For simple air and rustic dress, And sign of haste and carelessness?

Oh, more than specious counterfeit Of sentiment or studied wit, A heart like thine should value it.

Yet half I fear my gift will be Unto thy book, if not to thee, Of more than doubtful courtesy.

A banished name from Fashion’s sphere, A lay unheard of Beauty’s ear, Forbid, disowned,—what do they here?

Upon my ear not all in vain Came the sad captive’s clanking chain, The groaning from his bed of pain.

And sadder still, I saw the woe Which only wounded spirits know When Pride’s strong footsteps o’er them go.

Spurned not alone in walks abroad, But from the temples of the Lord Thrust out apart, like things abhorred.

Deep as I felt, and stern and strong, In words which Prudence smothered long, My soul spoke out against the wrong;

Not mine alone the task to speak Of comfort to the poor and weak, And dry the tear on Sorrow’s cheek;

But, mingled in the conflict warm, To pour the fiery breath of storm Through the harsh trumpet of Reform;

To brave Opinion’s settled frown, From ermined robe and saintly gown, While wrestling reverenced Error down.

Founts gushed beside my pilgrim way, Cool shadows on the greensward lay, Flowers swung upon the bending spray.

And, broad and bright, on either hand, Stretched the green slopes of Fairy-land, With Hope’s eternal sunbow spanned;

Whence voices called me like the flow, Which on the listener’s ear will grow, Of forest streamlets soft and low.

And gentle eyes, which still retain Their picture on the heart and brain, Smiled, beckoning from that path of pain.

In vain! nor dream, nor rest, nor pause Remain for him who round him draws The battered mail of Freedom’s cause.

From youthful hopes, from each green spot Of young Romance, and gentle Thought, Where storm and tumult enter not;

From each fair altar, where belong The offerings Love requires of Song In homage to her bright-eyed throng;