Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse. 1912.
John Greenleaf Whittier 1807–1892
John Greenleaf Whittier72 Randolph of Roanoke
O M
Thy weary ones receiving,
And o’er them, silent as a dream,
Thy grassy mantle weaving,
Fold softly in thy long embrace
That heart so worn and broken,
And cool its pulse of fire beneath
Thy shadows old and oaken.
And serpent hiss of scorning; Nor let the storms of yesterday Disturb his quiet morning. Breathe over him forgetfulness Of all save deeds of kindness, And, save to smiles of grateful eyes, Press down his lids in blindness. He heard Potomac’s flowing, And, through his tall ancestral trees, Saw autumn’s sunset glowing, He sleeps,—still looking to the west, Beneath the dark wood shadow, As if he still would see the sun Sink down on wave and meadow. All moods of mind contrasting,— The tenderest wail of human wo, The scorn-like lightning blasting; The pathos which from rival eyes Unwilling tears could summon, The stinging taunt, the fiery burst Of hatred scarcely human! From lips of life-long sadness; Clear picturings of majestic thought Upon a ground of madness; And over all Romance and Song A classic beauty throwing, And laurelled Clio at his side Her storied pages showing. Beheld its schemes disjointed, As right or left his fatal glance And spectral finger pointed. Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down With trenchant wit unsparing, And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand The robe Pretence was wearing. A love he never cherished, Beyond Virginia’s border line His patriotism perished. While others hailed in distant skies Our eagle’s dusty pinion, He only saw the mountain bird Stoop o’er his Old Dominion! Racked nerve, and brain all burning, His loving faith in Mother-land Knew never shade of turning; By Britain’s lakes, by Neva’s wave, Whatever sky was o’er him, He heard her rivers’ rushing sound, Her blue peaks rose before him. No false and vain pretences, Nor paid a lying priest to seek For Scriptural defences. His harshest words of proud rebuke, His bitterest taunt and scorning, Fell fire-like on the Northern brow That bent to him in fawning. His reverence for the Human; In the dark vassals of his will He saw but Man and Woman! No hunter of God’s outraged poor His Roanoke valley entered; No trader in the souls of men Across his threshold ventured. Lay down for his last sleeping, And at his side, a slave no more, His brother-man stood weeping, His latest thought, his latest breath, To Freedom’s duty giving, With failing tongue and trembling hand The dying blest the living. A truer son or braver! None trampling with a calmer scorn On foreign hate or favor. He knew her faults, yet never stooped His proud and manly feeling To poor excuses of the wrong Or meanness of concealing. The plague-spot o’er her spreading. None heard more sure the steps of Doom Along her future treading. For her as for himself he spake, When, his gaunt frame upbracing, He traced with dying hand “Remorse!” And perished in the tracing. From Vernon’s weeping willow, And from the grassy pall which hides The Sage of Monticello, So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone Of Randolph’s lowly dwelling, Virginia! o’er thy land of slaves A warning voice is swelling! Are sadder warnings spoken, From quenched hearths, where thy exiled sons Their household gods have broken. The curse is on thee,—wolves for men, And briers for corn-sheaves giving! O, more than all thy dead renown Were now one hero living!