John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Poems Subjective and ReminiscentMy Namesake
Y
Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend—
A green leaf on your own Green Banks—
The memory of your friend.
The sobered brow and lessening hair:
For aught I know, the myrtled sides
Of Helicon are bare.
The fabled founts of song to try,
They ’ve drained, for aught I know, the spring
Of Aganippe dry.
Proves often Folly’s cap and bell;
Methinks, my ample beaver’s shade
May serve my turn as well.
Be paid by those I love in life.
Why should the unborn critic whet
For me his scalping-knife?
One’s vacant house of life about,
And drag for curious ear and eye
His faults and follies out?—
With chaff of words, the garb he wore,
As corn-husks when the ear is gone
Are rustled all the more?
The picture vanish from the eye,
And on the dim and misty main
Let the small ripple die.
To grateful thanks, dear friends of mine.
Hang, if it please you so, my name
Upon your household line.
Her chosen names, I envy none:
A mother’s love, a father’s pride,
Shall keep alive my own!
The young leaf wet with morning dew,
The glory where the sunbeams fall
The breezy woodlands through.
A spell to waken smile or sigh;
In many an evening prayer be heard
And cradle lullaby.
When asked the reason of thy name,
Shalt answer: “One ’t were vain to praise
Or censure bore the same.
The truth lay doubtless ’twixt the two;
He reconciled as best he could
Old faith and fancies new.
And wisdom held with folly truce,
And Nature compromised betwixt
Good fellow and recluse.
And, if his words were harsh at times,
He spared his fellow-men,—his blows
Fell only on their crimes.
His human heart to all akin
Who met him on the common ground
Of suffering and of sin.
Of pain or grief his own became;
For all the ills he could not cure
He held himself to blame.
His evil not of forethought done;
The work he wrought was rarely meant
Or finished as begun.
To turn the common mills of use;
And, over restless wings of song,
His birthright garb hung loose!
And his the ear which discord pains;
Few guessed beneath his aspect grave
What passions strove in chains.
No holiday was life to him;
Still in the heirloom cup we drain
The bitter drop will swim.
And there a flower beguiled his way;
And, cool, in summer noons, he heard
The fountains plash and play.
The patient peace of Nature stole;
The quiet of the fields and woods
Sank deep into his soul.
And kept the faith of childish days,
And, howsoe’er he strayed or slid,
He loved the good old ways.
The tranquil air, and gentle speech,
The silence of the soul that waits
For more than man to teach.
Provoked at times his honest scorn,
And Folly, in its gray respect,
He tossed on satire’s horn.
And reverence for all sacred things;
And, brooding over form and law,
He saw the Spirit’s wings!
He heard far voices mock his own,
The sweep of wings unseen, the loud,
Long roll of waves unknown.
Fell quenched in darkness; priest and sage,
Like lost guides calling left and right,
Perplexed his doubtful age.
Of its dropped pebbles in the well,
All vainly down the dark profound
His brief-lined plummet fell.
On old beliefs, of later creeds,
Which claimed a place in Truth’s domains,
He asked the title-deeds.
In the long distance fair and dim;
And heard, like sound of far-off pines,
The century-mellowed hymn!
The Brahmin’s rite, the Lama’s spell;
God knew the heart; Devotion’s pearl
Might sanctify the shell.
He faltered like the publican;
And, while they praised as saints, his prayers
Were those of sinful man.
The trembling faith alone sufficed,
That, through its cloud and flame, he saw
The sweet, sad face of Christ!
Heard the Divine compassion fill
The pauses of the trump and cloud
With whispers small and still.
Are mortal as his hand and brain,
But, if they served the Master’s end,
He has not lived in vain!”
Child of my friends!—For thee I crave
What riches never bought, nor fame
To mortal longing gave.
God make thee beautiful within,
And let thine eyes the good behold
In everything save sin!
To serve, not rule, thy poisëd mind;
Thy Reason, at the frown or beck
Of Conscience, loose or bind.
Strong manhood crowning vigorous youth;
Life made by duty epical
And rhythmic with the truth.
Which trees of healing only give,
And green-leafed in the Eternal field
Of God, forever live!