John G. Whittier. 1807- ——.
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore;
The glory from his gray hairs gone
For evermore!
Ichabod!
Making their lives a prayer.
To A. K. On receiving a Basket of Sea-Mosses.
And step by step, since time began,
I see the steady gain of man.
The Chapel of the Hermits.
For still the new transcends the old
In signs and tokens manifold;
Slaves rise up men; the olive waves,
With roots deep set in battle graves!
The Chapel of the Hermits.
Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time,
So "Bonnie Doon" but tarry;
Blot out the epic's stately rhyme,
But spare his "Highland Mary!"
Lines on Burns.
[619]
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
Maud Muller.
Low stir of leaves and dip of oars
And lapsing waves on quiet shores.
Snow Bound.
The hope of all who suffer,
The dread of all who wrong.
The Mantle of St. John de Matha.
I know not where His islands lift
Their fronded palms in air;
I only know I cannot drift
Beyond His love and care.
The Eternal Goodness.