John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Personal PoemsRantoul
O
His manly word for Freedom sped;
We came next morn: that tongue of fire
Said only, “He who spake is dead!”
In echoes round the pillared dome!
Dead! while his blotted page lay wet
With themes of state and loves of home!
That triumph of life’s zenith hour!
Dead! while we watched his manhood’s prime
Break from the slow bud into flower!
While the mean thousands yet drew breath;
How deepened, through that dread surprise,
The mystery and the awe of death!
Had borne him, clear, calm, earnest, fell
His first words, like the prelude notes
Of some great anthem yet to swell.
Our champion waiting in his place
For the last battle of the world,
The Armageddon of the race.
Which wins the freedom of a land;
And lift, for human right, the sword
Which dropped from Hampden’s dying hand.
And walked with Pym and Vane apart;
And, through the centuries, felt the beat
Of Freedom’s march in Cromwell’s heart.
Where England’s best and wisest trod;
And, lingering, drank the springs that welled
Beneath the touch of Milton’s rod.
Self-poised and clear, he showed alway
The coolness of his northern night,
The ripe repose of autumn’s day.
He pressed where others paused or failed;
The calm star clomb with constant will,
The restless meteor flashed and paled!
And owned the higher ends of Law;
Still rose majestic on his view
The awful Shape the schoolman saw.
The choral harmonies whereby
The stars, through all their spheres, rejoice,
The rhythmic rule of earth and sky!
To poor ambitions; yet, through all,
We saw him take the weaker side,
And right the wronged, and free the thrall.
For one like him in word and act,
To call her old, free spirit forth,
And give her faith the life of fact,—
And labor with the zeal of him
To make the Democratic name
Of Liberty the synonyme,—
We seek the strong, the wise, the brave,
And, sad of heart, return to stand
In silence by a new-made grave!
Look out upon his sail-white seas,
The sounds of winds and waters come,
And shape themselves to words like these:
Was lent to Party over-long,
Heard the still whisper at the hour
He set his foot on Party wrong?
No lapse of folly now can stain:
The lips whence Freedom’s protest fell
No meaner thought can now profane.
That lofty protest utters o’er;
Through roaring wind and smiting wave
It speaks his hate of wrong once more.
Is wasted here; arise and pay
To freedom and to him your debt,
By following where he led the way!”