Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/439

Rh Hide it from idle praises, Save it from evil phrases: Why, when dear lips that spake it Are dumb, should strangers wake it?

Let the thick curtain fall; I better know than all How little I have gained, How vast the unattained.

Not by the page word-painted Let life be banned or sainted: Deeper than written scroll The colors of the soul.

Sweeter than any sung My songs that found no tongue; Nobler than any fact My wish that failed of act.

Others shall sing the song, Others shall right the wrong,— Finish what I begin, And all I fail of win.

What matter, I or they? Mine or another’s day, So the right word be said And life the sweeter made?

Hail to the coming singers! Hail to the brave light-bringers! Forward I reach and share All that they sing and dare.

The airs of heaven blow o’er me; A glory shines before me Of what mankind shall be,— Pure, generous, brave, and free.

A dream of man and woman Diviner but still human, Solving the riddle old, Shaping the Age of Gold!

The love of God and neighbor; An equal-handed labor; The richer life, where beauty Walks hand in hand with duty.

Ring, bells in unreared steeples, The joy of unborn peoples! Sound, trumpets far off blown, Your triumph is my own!

Parcel and part of all, I keep the festival, Fore-reach the good to be, And share the victory.

I feel the earth move sunward, I join the great march onward, And take, by faith, while living, My freehold of thanksgiving.

sits the school-house by the road,
 * A ragged beggar sleeping;

Around it still the sumachs grow,
 * And blackberry-vines are creeping.

Within, the master’s desk is seen,
 * Deep scarred by raps official;

The warping floor, the battered seats,
 * The jack-knife’s carved initial;

The charcoal frescos on its wall;
 * Its door’s worn sill, betraying

The feet that, creeping slow to school,
 * Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun
 * Shone over it at setting;

Lit up its western window-panes,
 * And low eaves’ icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
 * And brown eyes full of grieving,

Of one who still her steps delayed
 * When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy
 * Her childish favor singled:

His cap pulled low upon a face
 * Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
 * To right and left, he lingered;—

As restlessly her tiny hands
 * The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
 * The soft hand’s light caressing,

And heard the tremble of her voice,
 * As if a fault confessing.

I ’m sorry that I spelt the word:
 * I hate to go above you,