Poet John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

  • 451.  
    Dream not, O Soul, that easy is the task
    Thus set before thee. If it proves at length,As well it may, beyond thy natural strength,
  • 452.  
    WE give thy natal day to hope,
    O Country of our love and prayer!Thy way is down no fatal slope,
  • 453.  

  • 454.  
    KNOW'ST thou, O slave-cursed land!
    How, when the Chian's cup of guiltWas full to overflow, there came
  • 455.  
    GOD bless ye, brothers! in the fight
    Ye 're waging now, ye cannot fail,For better is your sense of right
  • 456.  
    STILL in thy streets, O Paris! doth the stain
    Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain;Still breaks the smoke Messina's ruins through,
  • 457.  
    But what avail inadequate words to reach
    The innermost of Truth? Who shall essay,Blinded and weak, to point and lead the way,
  • 458.  
    For Dr Henry L Bowditch

  • 459.  
    A FEW brief years have passed away
    Since Britain drove her million slavesBeneath the tropic's fiery ray:
  • 460.  
    ALL night above their rocky bed
    They saw the stars march slow;The wild Sierra overhead,
  • 461.  
    NAUHAUGHT, the Indian deacon, who of old
    Dwelt, poor but blameless, where his narrowing CapeStretches its shrunk arm out to all the winds
  • 462.  
    On the wide lawn the snow lay deep,
    Ridged oâ??er with many a drifted heap;The wind that through the pine-trees sung
  • 463.  
    The elder folks shook hands at last,
    Down seat by seat the signal passed.To simple ways like ours unused,
  • 464.  
    From Alton Bay to Sandwich Dome,
    From Mad to Saco river,For patriarchs of the primal wood
  • 465.  
    I HAVE been thinking of the victims bound
    In Naples, dying for the lack of airAnd sunshine, in their close, damp cells of pain,
  • 466.  
    UP the hillside, down the glen,
    Rouse the sleeping citizen;Summon out the might of men!
  • 467.  
    Who stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone,
    Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky, Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high,
  • 468.  
    The blast from Freedom's Northern hills, upon its Southern way,
    Bears greeting to Virginia from Massachusetts Bay:No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle's peal,
  • 469.  
    Yes, pile the marble o'er him! It is well
    That ye who mocked him in his long stern strife,And planted in the pathway of his life
  • 470.  
    O THOU, whose presence went before
    Our fathers in their weary way,As with Thy chosen moved of yore
  • 471.  
    Men said at vespers: 'All is well!'
    In one wild night the city fell;Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gain
  • 472.  
    The roll of drums and the bugle's wailing
    Vex the air of our vales-no more;The spear is beaten to hooks of pruning,
  • 473.  
    Here is the place; right over the hill
    Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the old wall still,
  • 474.  
    Piero Luca, known of all the town
    As the gray porter by the Pitti wallWhere the noon shadows of the gardens fall,
  • 475.  
    JUST God! and these are they
    Who minister at thine altar, God of Right!Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay
  • 476.  
    The birds against the April wind
    Flew northward, singing as they flew; They sang, "The land we leave behind
  • 477.  
    John Pierpont, the eloquent preacher and poet of Boston.

  • 478.  
    The Pagan's myths through marble lips are spoken,
    And ghosts of old Beliefs still flit and moanRound fane and altar overthrown and broken,
  • 479.  
    The threads our hands in blindness spin
    No self-determined plan weaves in;The shuttle of the unseen powers
  • 480.  
    Beside that milestone where the level sun,
    Nigh unto setting, sheds his last, low raysOn word and work irrevocably done,
  • 481.  
    THRICE welcome to thy sisters of the East,
    To the strong tillers of a rugged home,With spray-wet locks to Northern winds released,
  • 482.  
    Its windows flashing to the sky,
    Beneath a thousand roofs of brown,Far down the vale, my friend and I
  • 483.  
    'Get ye up from the wrath of God's terrible day!
    Ungirded, unsandalled, arise and away!'T is the vintage of blood, 't is the fulness of time,
  • 484.  
    Of A Virginia Slave Mother To Her Daughters Sold Into Southern Bondage

  • 485.  

  • 486.  
    A shallow stream, from fountains
    Deep in the Sandwich mountains,Ran lake ward Bearcamp River;
  • 487.  
    NIGHT on the city of the Moor!
    On mosque and tomb, and white-walled shore,On sea-waves, to whose ceaseless knock
  • 488.  
    Dark the halls, and cold the feast,
    Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest.All is over, all is done,
  • 489.  
    Sunlight upon Judha's hills!
    And on the waves of Galilee;On Jordan's stream, and on the rills
  • 490.  
    O HOLY FATHER! just and true
    Are all Thy works and words and ways,And unto Thee alone are due
  • 491.  
    A STRONG and mighty Angel,
    Calm, terrible, and bright,The cross in blended red and blue
  • 492.  

  • 493.  
    No bird-song floated down the hill,
    The tangled bank below was still;
  • 494.  
    BENEATH thy skies, November!
    Thy skies of cloud and rain,Around our blazing camp-fires
  • 495.  
    A tender child of summers three,
    Seeking her little bed at night,Paused on the dark stair timidly.
  • 496.  
    Through Thy clear spaces, Lord, of old,
    Formless and void the dead earth rolled;Deaf to Thy heaven's sweet music, blind
  • 497.  
    Oh, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come
    To set de people free;An' massa tink it day ob doom,
  • 498.  
    The circle is broken, one seat is forsaken,
    One bud from the tree of our friendship is shaken;One heart from among us no longer shall thrill
  • 499.  
    The autumn-time has come;
    On woods that dream of bloom, And over purpling vines,
  • 500.  

Total 522 poems written by John Greenleaf Whittier

Poem of the day

A. E. Housman Poem
When I Watch The Living Meet
 by A. E. Housman

When I watch the living meet,
And the moving pageant file
Warm and breathing through the street
Where I lodge a little while,

If the heats of hate and lust
In the house of flesh are strong,
Let me mind the house of dust

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