John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Songs of Labor and ReformThe Reformer
A
I saw a Strong One, in his wrath,
Smiting the godless shrines of man
Along his path.
Essayed in vain her ghostly charm:
Wealth shook within his gilded home
With strange alarm.
Before the sunlight bursting in:
Sloth drew her pillow o’er her head
To drown the din.
That grand, old, time-worn turret spare;”
Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle,
Cried out, “Forbear!”
Groped for his old accustomed stone,
Leaned on his staff, and wept to find
His seat o’erthrown.
O’erhung with paly locks of gold,—
“Why smite,” he asked in sad surprise,
“The fair, the old?”
Yet nearer flashed his axe’s gleam;
Shuddering and sick of heart I woke,
As from a dream.
The Waster seemed the Builder too;
Upspringing from the ruined Old
I saw the New.
The wasting of the wrong and ill;
Whate’er of good the old time had
Was living still.
The frown which awed me passed away,
And left behind a smile which cheered
Like breaking day.
O’er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow;
The slave stood forging from his chains
The spade and plough.
And cottage windows, flower-entwined,
Looked out upon the peaceful bay
And hills behind.
The lights on brimming crystal fell,
Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head
And mossy well.
Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed,
And with the idle gallows-rope
The young child played.
Had counted o’er the weary hours,
Glad school-girls, answering to the bell,
Came crowned with flowers.
I fear no longer, for I know
That, where the share is deepest driven,
The best fruits grow.
The pious fraud transparent grown,
The good held captive in the use
Of wrong alone,—
Which makes the past time serve to-day;
And fresher life the world shall draw
From their decay.
The new is old, the old is new,
The cycle of a change sublime
Still sweeping through.
Destroying Seva, forming Brahm,
Who wake by turns Earth’s love and fear,
Are one, the same.
Thou mournest, did thy sire repine;
So, in his time, thy child grown gray
Shall sigh for thine.
Th’ eternal step of Progress beats
To that great anthem, calm and slow,
Which God repeats.
A charmëd life old Goodness hath;
The tares may perish, but the grain
Is not for death.
His first propulsion from the night:
Wake thou and watch! the world is gray
With morning light!