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Typo: A Monthly Newspaper and Literary Review, Volume 6

John Greenleaf Whittier

page 69

John Greenleaf Whittier.

One of the best and best-beloved men of this century has passed away in the person of John Greenleaf Whittier. Fifteen years ago, when his seventieth birthday was celebrated, the almost unbroken circle of famous American authors and poets joined in their congratulations. Of that distinguished group of founders of the national literature, one only now remains, the evergreen « Autocrat. » The broad outlines of Whittier's life—a life so simple, so noble, and so true—are familiar to every reader of current literature, and some of his homely and thrilling ballads have already become classical. In such autobiographical pieces as « The Barefoot Boy, » « In Schooldays, » and the matchless idyl « Snow-bound, » we have an insight into his character and early surroundings. « Art for art's sake » was never the motto of the Quaker poet. In his youth, while under the spell of Scott, he produced work like « Mogg Megone, » of which his maturer judgment disapproved: but taking his writings from beginning to end, it may be said of him, more truly perhaps than of any other author of the age, that he left « no line which, dying, he would wish to blot. » Indifferent as he was to metrical refinements, and working always with serious and earnest purpose, he yet possessed the unmistakeable genius of the poet. Of him no less severe a critic than William Michael Rossetti has said, that « by elevated simplicity of mind, truthfulness of perception and feeling, an earnest desire after excellence, and a superiority to every sort of artifice, he has often realized a genuine artistic success…. The grace of sincerity hangs about all that he has done: in his earlier writings this is mostly a moral grace; but as he proceeds and progresses, it becomes a grace of art likewise. » This directness and simplicity enabled him, when he turned from national subjects, to give a vivid and lifelike rendering of the old Norse legends equal to anything that any English writer not excepting Longfellow, has accomplished. A memorial piece, « Randolph of Roanoke, » is unique both as a character-study and in the vigor and tenderness of its stanzas. We rarely take our volume from the shelf without turning up this splendid poem and reading it once again. It is remarkable in its appreciation of a character so entirely opposite to the poet's own nature as was that of the fiery Virginian. Few poets have denounced national sins in more trenchant verse than Whittier, or have sacrificed so much for principle; yet powerful as were his denunciations of war, slavery, and corruption, he was always an optimist, with a deep love for humankind. One of his poems, « The Eve of Election, » deserves to be committed to memory by every scholar in our public schools, and should be read and pondered by every man who makes use of the franchise. His faith is set forth in such well-known poems as « The Eternal Goodness » and « The Answer, » embodying some profound spiritual truths, and unorthodox accordingly. « Our Master » may take its place beside the immortal introduction to « In Memoriam. » Whittier has lived to see most of the battles he fought won. In one of his meditative poems, « My Birthday, » he looks back:

How softly ebb the tides of will!
How fields, once lost or won,
Now lie behind me, green and still,
Beneath a level sun!
How hushed the hiss of party hate,
The clamor of the throng!
How old harsh voices of debate
Flow into rhythmic song!

How clearly rings the note of victory in « My Triumph » !—

Sweeter than any sung,
My songs that found no tongue;
Nobler than any fact,
My wish that failed of act.
Others shall sing the song,
Others shall right the wrong,—
Finish what I begin,
And all I fail of win.
؟What matter, I or they—
Mine, or another's day—
So the right word be said,
And life the sweeter made?
Hail to the coming singers!
Hail to the brave light-bringers!
Forward I reach and share
All that they sing and dare.
The airs of heaven blow o'er me;
A glory shines before me
Of what mankind shall be—
Pure, generous, brave, and free.
A dream of man and woman,
Diviner, but still human,
Solving the riddle old,
Shaping the Age of Gold !
The love of God and neighbor;
An equal-handed labor;
The richer life, where beauty
Walks hand-in-hand with duty.
Ring, bells in unreared steeples,
The joy of unborn peoples!
Sound, trumpets far-off blown—
Your triumph is my own !
Parcel and part of all,
I keep the festival,
Fore-reach the good to be,
And share the victory.
I feel the earth move sunward,
I join the great march onward,
And take by faith, while living,
My freehold of thanksgiving.

No lovelier poem has ever been written by an American poet than « The River Path, » published more than twenty years ago. It has a new interest now that the aged poet has passed through the River to the Unseen Land. To break the poem in any way would be to mar its perfect unity and sequence of thought. We quote it in full:

The River Path.
No bird-song floated down the hill,
The tangled bank below was still;
No rustle from the birchen stem,
No ripple from the water's hem.
The dusk of twilight round us grew,
We felt the falling of the dew.
For, from us, ere the day was done,
The wooded hills shut out the sun.
But on the river's farther side
We saw the hill-tops glorified,—
A tender glow, exceeding fair,
A dream of day without its glare.
With us the damp, the chill, the gloom;
With them the sunset's rosy bloom;
While dark, through willowy vistas seen,
The river rolled in shade between.
From out the darkness where we trod,
We gazed upon those hills of God,
Whose light seemed not of moon or sun—
We spake not, but our thought was one.
We paused, as if from that bright shore
Beckoned our dear ones gone before;
And stilled our beating hearts to hear
The voices lost to mortal ear!
Sudden our pathway turned from night;
The hills swung open to the light;
Through their green gates the sunshine showed,
A long slant splendor downward flowed.
Down glade and glen and bank it rolled;
It bridged the shaded stream with gold;
And, borne on piers of mist, allied
The shadowy with the sunlit side.
« So, » prayed we, « when our feet draw near
The river dark, with mortal fear,
And the night Cometh, chill with dew,
O Father! let thy light break through!
So let the hills of doubt divide,
So bridge with faith the sunless tide!
So let the eyes that fail on earth
On thy eternal hills look forth,
And in thy beckoning angels know
The dear ones whom we loved below! »