Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/421

Rh With soul and strength, with heart and hand, I turned to Freedom’s struggling band, To the sad Helots of our land.

What marvel then that Fame should turn Her notes of praise to those of scorn; Her gifts reclaimed, her smiles withdrawn?

What matters it? a few years more, Life’s surge so restless heretofore Shall break upon the unknown shore!

In that far land shall disappear The shadows which we follow here, The mist-wreaths of our atmosphere!

Before no work of mortal hand, Of human will or strength expand The pearl gates of the Better Land;

Alone in that great love which gave Life to the sleeper of the grave, Resteth the power to seek and save.

Yet, if the spirit gazing through The vista of the past can view One deed to Heaven and virtue true:

If through the wreck of wasted powers, Of garlands wreathed from Folly’s bowers, Of idle aims and misspent hours,

The eye can note one sacred spot By Pride and Self profanëd not, A green place in the waste of thought,

Where deed or word hath rendered less The sum of human wretchedness, And Gratitude looks forth to bless;

The simple burst of tenderest feeling From sad hearts worn by evil-dealing, For blessing on the hand of healing;

Better than Glory’s pomp will be That green and blessed spot to me, A palm-shade in Eternity!

Something of Time which may invite The purified and spiritual sight To rest on with a calm delight.

And when the summer winds shall sweep With their light wings my place of sleep, And mosses round my headstone creep;

If still, as Freedom’s rallying sign, Upon the young heart’s altars shine The very tires they caught from mine;

If words my lips once uttered still, In the calm faith and steadfast will Of other hearts, their work fulfil;

Perchance with joy the soul may learn These tokens, and its eye discern The fires which on those altars burn;

A marvellous joy that even then, The spirit hath its life again, In the strong hearts of mortal men.

Take, lady, then, the gift I bring, No gay and graceful offering, No flower-smile of the laughing spring.

Midst the green buds of Youth’s fresh May, With Fancy’s leaf-enwoven bay, My sad and sombre gift I lay.

And if it deepens in thy mind A sense of suffering human-kind,— The outcast and the spirit-blind;

Oppressed and spoiled on every side, By Prejudice, and Scorn, and Pride, Life’s common courtesies denied;

Sad mothers mourning o’er their trust, Children by want and misery nursed, Tasting life’s bitter cup at first;

If to their strong appeals which come From fireless hearth, and crowded room, And the close alley’s noisome gloom,—

Though dark the hands upraised to thee In mute beseeching agony, Thou lend’st thy woman’s sympathy;

Not vainly on thy gentle shrine, Where Love, and Mirth, and Friendship twine Their varied gifts, I offer mine.