John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

LAST week — the Lord be praised for all His mercies
To His unworthy servant! — I arrived
Safe at the Mission, via Westport; where
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A BLUSH as of roses
Where rose never grew!
Great drops on the bunch-grass,
But not of the dew!
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I LOVE the old melodious lays
Which softly melt the ages through,
The songs of Spenser’s golden days,
Arcadian Sidney’s silvery phrase,
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THE South-land boasts its teeming cane,
The prairied West its heavy grain,
And sunset's radiant gates unfold
On rising marts and sands of gold!
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Fold her, O Father, in Thine arms,
And let her henceforth be
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O dwellers in the stately towns,
What come ye out to see?
This common earth, this common sky,
This water flowing free?
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She sang alone, ere womanhood had known
The gift of song which fills the air to-day
Tender and sweet, a music all her own
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Blossom and greenness, making all
The winter birthday tropical,
And the plain Quaker parlors gay,
Have gone from bracket, stand, and wall;
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Where ceaseless Spring her garland twines,
As sweetly shall the loved one rest,
As if beneath the whispering pines
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I.
'Encore un hymne, O ma lyre
Un hymn pour le Seigneur,
Un hymne dans mon delire,
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