"With deeper voice than any speech Of mortal lips from man to man, What earth's unwisdom may not teach The Spirit only can.
"Make thou that holy guide thine own, And following where it leads the way, The known shall lapse in the unknown As twilight into day.
"The best of earth shall still remain, And heaven's eternal years shall prove That life and death, and joy and pain, Are ministers of Love."
THE LAST EVE OF SUMMER.
Summer's last sun nigh unto setting shines Through yon columnar pines, And on the deepening shadows of the lawn Its golden lines are drawn.
Dreaming of long gone summer days like this, Feeling the wind's soft kiss, Grateful and glad that failing ear and sight Have still their old delight,
I sit alone, and watch the warm, sweet day Lapse tenderly away; And, wistful, with a feeling of forecast, I ask, "Is this the last?
"Will nevermore for me the seasons run Their round, and will the sun Of ardent summers yet to come forget For me to rise and set?"
Thou shouldst be here, or I should be with thee Wherever thou mayst be, Lips mute, hands clasped, in silences of speech Each answering unto each.
For this still hour, this sense of mystery far Beyond the evening star, No words outworn suffice on lip or scroll: The soul would fain with soul
Wait, while these few swift-passing days fulfil The wise-disposing Will, And, in the evening as at morning, trust The All-Merciful and Just.
The solemn joy that soul-communion feels Immortal life reveals; And human love, its prophecy and sign, Interprets love divine.
Come then, in thought, if that alone may be, O friend! and bring with thee Thy calm assurance of transcendent Spheres And the Eternal Years!
August 31, 1890.
TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
8TH Mo. 29TH, 1892.
This, the last of Mr. Whittier's poems, was written but a few weeks before his death.
Among the thousands who with hail and cheer Will welcome thy new year, How few of all have passed, as thou and I, So many milestones by!
We have grown old together; we have seen, Our youth and age between, Two generations leave us, and to-day We with the third hold way,
Loving and loved. If thought must backward run To those who, one by one, In the great silence and the dark beyond Vanished with farewells fond,
Unseen, not lost; our grateful memories still Their vacant places fill, And with the full-voiced greeting of new friends A tenderer whisper blends.
Linked close in a pathetic brotherhood Of mingled ill and good, Of joy and grief, of grandeur and of shame, For pity more than blame,--
The gift is thine the weary world to make More cheerful for thy sake, Soothing the ears its Miserere pains, With the old Hellenic strains,
Lighting the sullen face of discontent With smiles for blessings sent.
Enough of selfish wailing has been had, Thank God! for notes more glad.
Life is indeed no holiday; therein Are want, and woe, and sin, Death and its nameless fears, and over all Our pitying tears must fall.
Sorrow is real; but the counterfeit Which folly brings to it, We need thy wit and wisdom to resist, O rarest Optimist!
Thy hand, old friend! the service of our days, In differing moods and ways, May prove to those who follow in our train Not valueless nor vain.
Far off, and faint as echoes of a dream, The songs of boyhood seem, Yet on our autumn boughs, unflown with spring, The evening thrushes sing.
The hour draws near, howe'er delayed and late, When at the Eternal Gate We leave the words and works we call our own, And lift void hands alone
For love to fill. Our nakedness of soul Brings to that Gate no toll; Giftless we come to Him, who all things gives, And live because He lives.
VOLUME V. MARGARET SMITH'S JOURNAL TALES AND SKETCHES
The intelligent reader of the following record cannot fail to notice occasional inaccuracies in respect to persons, places, and dates; and, as a matter of course, will make due allowance for the prevailing prejudices and errors of the period to which it relates. That there are passages indicative of a comparatively recent origin, and calculated to cast a shade of doubt over the entire narrative, the Editor would be the last to deny, notwithstanding its general accordance with historical verities and probabilities. Its merit consists mainly in the fact that it presents a tolerably lifelike picture of the Past, and introduces us familiarly to the hearths and homes of New England in the seventeenth century.
A full and accurate account of Secretary Rawson and his family is about to be published by his descendants, to which the reader is referred who wishes to know more of the personages who figure prominently in this Journal.
1866.
MARGARET SMITH'S JOURNAL IN THE PROVINCE OF MASSACHUSETTS BAY, 1678-9
TALES AND SKETCHES
MY SUMMER WITH DR. SINGLETARY: A FRAGMENT
THE LITTLE IRON SOLDIER PASSACONAWAY THE OPIUM EATER THE PROSELYTES DAVID MATSON THE FISH I DID N'T CATCH YANKEE GYPSIES THE TRAINING THE CITY OF A DAY PATUCKET FALLS FIRST DAY IN LOWELL THE LIGHTING UP TAKING COMFORT CHARMS AND FAIRY FAITH MAGICIANS AND WITCH FOLK THE BEAUTIFUL THE WORLD'S END THE HEROINE OF LONG POINT
MARGARET SMITH'S JOURNAL IN THE PROVINCE OF MASSACHUSETTS BAY 1678-9.