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.  
    1640-1890.

  • 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.  
    WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL.

  • 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.  
    ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRESENTED TO A FRIEND.

Total 522 poems written by John Greenleaf Whittier

Poem of the day

Driftwood
 by Sara Teasdale

My forefathers gave me
My spirit's shaken flame,
The shape of hands, the beat of heart,
The letters of my name.

But it was my lovers,
And not my sleeping sires,
Who gave the flame its changeful
...

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