John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Narrative and Legendary PoemsThe Pennsylvania Pilgrim
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From Pennsylvania’s vales of spring away,
Where, forest-walled, the scattered hamlets lay
Of purple cloud, on which the evening star
Shone like a jewel on a scimitar,
Hush of the woods a murmur seemed to creep,
The Schuylkill whispering in a voice of sleep.
Rested at last, and from their long day’s browse
Came the dun files of Krisheim’s home-bound cows.
The rivers like two mighty arms were thrown,
Marked by the smoke of evening fires alone,
With its fair women and its stately men
Gracing the forest court of William Penn,
Of oak and pine the dryads held their claims,
And lent its streets their pleasant woodland names.
Looked city-ward, then stooped to prune again
Her vines and simples, with a sigh of pain.
In the oak clearing, and, as daylight failed,
Slow, overhead, the dusky night-birds sailed.
With low-bent head as if with sorrow weighed,
Daniel Pastorius slowly came and said,
Silent before her, wrestling with the mood
Of one who sees the evil and not good.
A slow, faint smile across his features broke,
Sadder than tears. “Dear heart,” he said, “our folk
Are frail; our elders have their selfish ends,
And few dare trust the Lord to make amends
For the dumb slaves the startled meeting heard
As if a stone its quiet waters stirred;
A ripple of dissent which downward ran
In widening circles, as from man to man.
Of tender fear that some their guide outwent,
Troublers of Israel. I was scarce intent
Of gallery Friends, in dumb and piteous show,
I saw, methought, dark faces full of woe.
They toiled and suffered; I was made aware
Of shame and wrath and anguish and despair!
With cautious phrase, a Voice there seemed to be,
‘As ye have done to these ye do to me!’
Of anise, mint, and cumin, till the sun
Set, leaving still the weightier work undone.
If these be weak? Who shall rebuke the wrong,
If these consent? How long, O Lord! how long!”
With folded arms, and eyes that sought the ground,
Walked musingly his little garden round.
Rare plants of power and herbs of healing grew,
Such as Van Helmont and Agrippa knew.
With the mild mystics of his dreamy age
He read the herbal signs of nature’s page,
Fair as herself, in boyhood’s happy hours,
The pious Spener read his creed in flowers.
Touching with finger-tip an aloe, rife
With leaves sharp-pointed like an Aztec knife
From the rare gardens of John Evelyn,
Brought from the Spanish Main by merchantmen.
And, year by year, its patient leaves unfold,
Till the young eyes that watched it first are old.
A sudden beauty, brightness, and perfume,
The century-moulded bud shall burst in bloom.
Grow with the years, and, after long delay,
Break into bloom, and God’s eternal Yea
Who now, by faith alone, behold its stem
Crowned with the flowers of Freedom’s diadem.
Remains for us. The wrong indeed is great,
But love and patience conquer soon or late.”
Than youth’s caress upon the head of her
Pastorius laid his hand. “Shall we demur
We dream not of, the slow-grown bud may flower,
And what was sown in weakness rise in power!”
“Procul este profani!” Anna led
To where their child upon his little bed
Must bearers of a heavy burden be,
Our boy, God willing, yet the day shall see
Slave and slave-owner shall no longer meet,
But all sit equal at the Master’s feet.”
Set the low walls a-glimmer, showed the cock
Rebuking Peter on the Van Wyck clock,
By side with Fox and Behmen, played at hide
And seek with Anna, midst her household pride
Of costly cloth or silver cup, but where,
Tasting the fat shads of the Delaware,
And quoted Horace o’er her home-brewed beer,
Till even grave Pastorius smiled to hear.
He dwelt in peace with God and man, and gave
Food to the poor and shelter to the slave.
The righteous code by Penn and Sidney framed,
And men withheld the human rights they claimed.
And hardened avarice, on its gains intent,
Stifled the inward whisper of dissent.
On tender hearts. At last Pastorius bore
Their warning message to the Church’s door
Wrought ever after in the souls who heard,
And a dead conscience in its grave-clothes stirred
Of Hebrew custom, patriarchal use,
Good in itself if evil in abuse.
Discerning through the decent fig-leaf dress
Of the poor plea its shame of selfishness.
He hid the outcast, and bewrayed him not;
And, when his prey the human hunter sought,
And proffered cheer prolonged the master’s stay,
To speed the black guest safely on his way.
His life to some great cause, and finds his friends
Shame or betray it for their private ends?
In childish folly for their seats above;
And that fond mother, blinded by her love,
Might sit on either hand? Amidst his own
A stranger oft, companionless and lone,
Is not alone from scourge and cell and chain;
Sharper the pang when, shouting in his train,
The loud hosannas of their daily cry,
And make their echo of his truth a lie.
Guests, motley-minded, drew his hearth around,
And held armed truce upon its neutral ground.
Strong, hero-limbed, like those whom Homer sung,
Pastorius fancied, when the world was young,
Like bronzes in his friend Von Rodeck’s hall,
Comely, if black, and not unpleasing all.
Drew round his board on Monthly Meeting day,
Genial, half merry in their friendly way.
Weak, timid, homesick, slow to understand
The New World’s promise, sought his helping hand.
By Wissahickon, maddest of good men,
Dreamed o’er the Chiliast dreams of Petersen.
Snake-like in shade, the Helmstadt Mystic hid,
Weird as a wizard, over arts forbid,
And Behmen’s Morning-Redness, through the Stone
Of Wisdom, vouchsafed to his eyes alone,
And saw the visions man shall see no more,
Till the great angel, striding sea and shore,
The warning trump of the Apocalypse,
Shattering the heavens before the dread eclipse.
Leaned o’er the gate; or Ranter, pure within,
Aired his perfection in a world of sin.
Teased the low back-log with his shodden staff,
Till the red embers broke into a laugh
The rugged face, half tender, half austere,
Touched with the pathos of a homesick tear!
As law the Brethren of the Manor heard,
Announced the speedy terrors of the Lord,
Above a wrecked world with complacent face
Riding secure upon his plank of grace!
Manly in thought, in simple ways a child,
His white hair floating round his visage mild,
Pleased from his neighbor’s lips to hear once more
His long-disused and half-forgotten lore.
And speak in Bion’s Doric, and rehearse
Cleanthes’ hymn or Virgil’s sounding verse.
Argued as Quaker and as Lutheran,
Ending in Christian love, as they began.
Where Sommerhausen over vales of shade
Looked miles away, by every flower delayed,
Who loved, like him, to let his memory run
Over old fields of learning, and to sun
And dream with Philo over mysteries
Whereof the dreamer never finds the keys;
For doubt of truth, but let the buckets drop
Deep down and bring the hidden waters up.
Of tender souls; to differ was not crime;
The varying bells made up the perfect chime.
The white, clear light, tradition-colored, stole
Through the stained oriel of each human soul.
His old beliefs, adjusting to the thought
That moved his soul the creed his fathers taught.
Within themselves its secret witness find,
The soul’s communion with the Eternal Mind,
Scholar and peasant, lord and serf, allied,
The polished Penn and Cromwell’s Ironside.
By face in Flemish detail, we may trace
How loose-mouthed boor and fine ancestral grace
Broad market-dame, and simple serving-girl
By skirt of silk and periwig in curl!
Made all men equal, none could rise above
Nor sink below that level of God’s love.
The homespun frock beside the scholar’s gown,
Pastorius to the manners of the town
The bookless wisdom by experience taught,
And learned to love his new-found home, while not
Their rounds, and somewhat to his spirit lent
Of their own calm and measureless content.
His song of welcome to the Western spring,
And bluebird borrowing from the sky his wing.
And all the woods with many-colored flame
Of splendor, making summer’s greenness tame,
Spake to him from each kindled bush around,
And made the strange, new landscape holy ground!
Swept the white street and piled the dooryard drift,
He exercised, as Friends might say, his gift
Of corn and beans in Indian succotash;
Dull, doubtless, but with here and there a flash
Of quiet fancies, meet to while away
The slow hours measuring off an idle day.
Of love’s endurance, from its niche he took
The written pages of his ponderous book.
His “Rusca Apium,” which with bees began,
And through the gamut of creation ran.
In gray Altorf or storied Nürnberg penned
Dropped in upon him like a guest to spend
The fair Von Merlau spake as waters fall
And voices sound in dreams, and yet withal
Over the roses of her gardens blown
Brought the warm sense of beauty all her own.
Of spiritual influx or of saving grace
In the wild natures of the Indian race.
From Talmud, Koran, Veds, and Pentateuch,
Sought out his pupil in his far-off nook,
Of bird, beast, reptile, in his forest range,
Of flowers and fruits and simples new and strange.
Across the water, and the friendly lands
Talked with each other from their severed strands.
Sent from his new home grew to flower and fruit
Along the Rhine and at the Spessart’s foot;
Smiled at his door, the same in form and hue,
And on his vines the Rhenish clusters grew.
He set his hand to every honest work,—
Farmer and teacher, court and meeting clerk.
Grapes, flax, and thread-spool on a trefoil ground,
With “Vinum, Linum et Textrinum” wound.
Where Paul and Grotius, Scripture text and saw,
Assured the good, and held the rest in awe.
He kept the Sermon on the Mount in view,
And justice always into mercy grew.
Nor ducking-stool; the orchard-thief grew pale
At his rebuke, the vixen ceased to rail,
The slanderer faltered at the witness-stand,
And all men took his counsel for command.
Of tenderer skies than German land knew of,
Green calm below, blue quietness above,
That, with a sense of loving Fatherhood
And childlike trust in the Eternal Good,
Hushed strife, and taught impatient zeal to wait
The slow assurance of the better state?
O’er jagged ice, relieved by granite gray,
Blew round the men of Massachusetts Bay?
What hints of pitiless power and terror spoke
In waves that on their iron coast-line broke?
The sectary yielded to the citizen,
And peaceful dwelt the many-creeded men.
The air to madness, and no steeple flung
Alarums down from bells at midnight rung.
Washed all his war-paint off, and in the place
Of battle-marches sped the peaceful chase,
Giving to kindness what his native pride
And lazy freedom to all else denied.
Traditions that his swarthy neighbors told
By wigwam-fires when nights were growing cold,
Its dreams, and held their childish faith more true
To God and man than half the creeds he knew.
Beneath the warm wind waves of green and gold;
The planted ear returned its hundred-fold.
Than that which by the Rhine stream shines upon
The purpling hillsides with low vines o’errun.
Tried with light bill, that scarce a petal stirred,
The Old World flowers to virgin soil transferred;
The young boughs down, their gold and russet blending,
Made glad his heart, familiar odors lending
Life-everlasting, bay, and eglantine,
And all the subtle scents the woods combine.
Warm, tender, restful, sweet with woodland balm,
Came to him, like some mother-hallowed psalm
Of labor, winding off from memory’s reel
A golden thread of music. With no peal
The scattered settlers through green forest-ways
Walked meeting-ward. In reverent amaze
Shade of the alders on the rivulet’s rim,
Seek the Great Spirit’s house to talk with Him.
And made intense by sympathy, outside
The sparrows sang, and the gold-robin cried,
Breathed through the open windows of the room
From locust-trees, heavy with clustered bloom.
Whose fervor jail nor pillory could tame,
Proud of the cropped ears meant to be their shame,
In Indian isles; pale women who had bled
Under the hangman’s lash, and bravely said
And gray old soldier-converts, seamed with scars
From every stricken field of England’s wars.
Each waiting heart, till haply some one felt
On his moved lips the seal of silence melt.
Of a diviner life from soul to soul,
Baptizing in one tender thought the whole.
The friendly group still lingered at the door,
Greeting, inquiring, sharing all the store
Down the green vistas of the woodland strayed,
Whispered and smiled and oft their feet delayed.
Did light girl laughter ripple through the bushes,
As brooks make merry over roots and rushes?
The ear of silence heard, and every sound
Its place in nature’s fine accordance found.
Old kindly faces, youth and maidenhood
Seemed, like God’s new creation, very good!
Pastorius went his way. The unscared bird
Sang at his side; scarcely the squirrel stirred
And, wheresoe’er the good man looked or trod,
He felt the peace of nature and of God.
He loved all beauty, without fear of harm,
And in his veins his Teuton blood ran warm.
He made his own no circuit-judge to try
The freer conscience of his neighbors by.
Gracious and sweet, the better way was shown,
The joy of one, who, seeking not his own,
The thorns and shards of duty overpast,
And daily life, beyond his hope’s forecast,
And flowers upspringing in its narrow round,
And all his days with quiet gladness crowned.
He hummed what seemed like Altorf’s Burschen-song;
His good wife smiled, and did not count it wrong.
His Memory, while he trod the New World’s strand,
A double-ganger walked the Fatherland!
Shone on his quiet hearth, he missed the sight
Of Yule-log, Tree, and Christ-child all in white;
Old wait-songs sounding down his native street,
And watched again the dancers’ mingling feet;
He held the plain and sober maxims fast
Of the dear Friends with whom his lot was cast.
He loved the bird’s song in his dooryard trees,
And the low hum of home-returning bees;
Down the long street, the beauty and perfume
Of apple-boughs, the mingling light and gloom
With sun-threads; and the music the wind drew,
Mournful and sweet, from leaves it overblew.
And through the common sequence of events,
He felt the guiding hand of Providence
And lo! all other voices far and near
Died at that whisper, full of meanings clear.
The wandering lights, that all-misleading run,
Went out like candles paling in the sun.
It led, as in the vision of the seer
The wheels moved as the spirit in the clear
Watching the living splendor sink or rise,
Its will their will, knowing no otherwise.
He walked by faith and not the letter’s sight,
And read his Bible by the Inward Light.
Frozen in their creeds like fish in winter’s pool,
Tried the large tolerance of his liberal school,
He welcomed all the seeking souls who came,
And no man’s faith he made a cause of blame.
His own dear Friends sit by him knee to knee,
In social converse, genial, frank, and free.
Who owned it first) upon the circle fell,
Hushed Anna’s busy wheel, and laid its spell
To solemnize his shining face of mirth;
Only the old clock ticked amidst the dearth
In that soul-sabbath, till at last some word
Of tender counsel or low prayer was heard.
And take love’s message, went their homeward way;
So passed in peace the guileless Quaker’s day.
A truer idyl than the bards have told
Of Arno’s banks or Arcady of old.
And century-rooted mosses o’er it creep,
The Nürnberg scholar and his helpmeet sleep.
In Bartram’s garden, did John Woolman cast
A glance upon it as he meekly passed?
That tender soul, and for the slave’s redress
Lend hope, strength, patience? It were vain to guess.
Set in the fresco of tradition’s wall
Like Jotham’s bramble, mattereth not at all.
And summer’s heat, no seed of truth is lost,
And every duty pays at last its cost.
God sent the answer to his life-long prayer;
The child was born beside the Delaware,
Guided his people unto nobler ends,
And left them worthier of the name of Friends.
And over all the exile’s Western home,
From sea to sea the flowers of freedom bloom!
But not for thee, Pastorius! Even so
The world forgets, but the wise angels know.