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John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.

Personal Poems

Rantoul

  • No more fitting inscription could be placed on the tombstone of Robert Rantoul than this: “He died at his post in Congress, and his last words were a protest in the name of Democracy against the Fugitive-Slave Law.”


  • ONE day, along the electric wire

    His manly word for Freedom sped;

    We came next morn: that tongue of fire

    Said only, “He who spake is dead!”

    Dead! while his voice was living yet,

    In echoes round the pillared dome!

    Dead! while his blotted page lay wet

    With themes of state and loves of home!

    Dead! in that crowning grace of time,

    That triumph of life’s zenith hour!

    Dead! while we watched his manhood’s prime

    Break from the slow bud into flower!

    Dead! he so great, and strong, and wise,

    While the mean thousands yet drew breath;

    How deepened, through that dread surprise,

    The mystery and the awe of death!

    From the high place whereon our votes

    Had borne him, clear, calm, earnest, fell

    His first words, like the prelude notes

    Of some great anthem yet to swell.

    We seemed to see our flag unfurled,

    Our champion waiting in his place

    For the last battle of the world,

    The Armageddon of the race.

    Through him we hoped to speak the word

    Which wins the freedom of a land;

    And lift, for human right, the sword

    Which dropped from Hampden’s dying hand.

    For he had sat at Sidney’s feet,

    And walked with Pym and Vane apart;

    And, through the centuries, felt the beat

    Of Freedom’s march in Cromwell’s heart.

    He knew the paths the worthies held,

    Where England’s best and wisest trod;

    And, lingering, drank the springs that welled

    Beneath the touch of Milton’s rod.

    No wild enthusiast of the right,

    Self-poised and clear, he showed alway

    The coolness of his northern night,

    The ripe repose of autumn’s day.

    His steps were slow, yet forward still

    He pressed where others paused or failed;

    The calm star clomb with constant will,

    The restless meteor flashed and paled!

    Skilled in its subtlest wile, he knew

    And owned the higher ends of Law;

    Still rose majestic on his view

    The awful Shape the schoolman saw.

    Her home the heart of God; her voice

    The choral harmonies whereby

    The stars, through all their spheres, rejoice,

    The rhythmic rule of earth and sky!

    We saw his great powers misapplied

    To poor ambitions; yet, through all,

    We saw him take the weaker side,

    And right the wronged, and free the thrall.

    Now, looking o’er the frozen North,

    For one like him in word and act,

    To call her old, free spirit forth,

    And give her faith the life of fact,—

    To break her party bonds of shame,

    And labor with the zeal of him

    To make the Democratic name

    Of Liberty the synonyme,—

    We sweep the land from hill to strand,

    We seek the strong, the wise, the brave,

    And, sad of heart, return to stand

    In silence by a new-made grave!

    There, where his breezy hills of home

    Look out upon his sail-white seas,

    The sounds of winds and waters come,

    And shape themselves to words like these:

    “Why, murmuring, mourn that he, whose power

    Was lent to Party over-long,

    Heard the still whisper at the hour

    He set his foot on Party wrong?

    “The human life that closed so well

    No lapse of folly now can stain:

    The lips whence Freedom’s protest fell

    No meaner thought can now profane.

    “Mightier than living voice his grave

    That lofty protest utters o’er;

    Through roaring wind and smiting wave

    It speaks his hate of wrong once more.

    “Men of the North! your weak regret

    Is wasted here; arise and pay

    To freedom and to him your debt,

    By following where he led the way!”

    1853.