Whittiers Complete Poems, vol 4 | Page 2

the music which seems
Murmured low in our ears by the Angel of
dreams!
But holier and dearer our memories hold
Those treasures of feeling,
more precious than gold,
The love and the kindness and pity which
gave
Fresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the grave!
The heart ever open to Charity's claim,
Unmoved from its purpose by
censure and blame,
While vainly alike on her eye and her ear
Fell
the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer.
How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeper
With smiles for the
joyful, with tears for the weeper,
Yet, evermore prompt, whether
mournful or gay,
With warnings in love to the passing astray.
For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for them
Who sullied
with evil the spirit's pure gem;
And a sigh or a tear could the erring
reprove,
And the sting of reproof was still tempered by love.

As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven,
As a star that is lost
when the daylight is given,
As a glad dream of slumber, which
wakens in bliss,
She hath passed to the world of the holy from this.

1834.
TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS,
Late President of Western Reserve College, who died at his post of
duty, overworn by his strenuous labors with tongue and pen in the
cause of Human Freedom.
Thou hast fallen in thine armor,
Thou martyr of the Lord
With thy
last breath crying "Onward!"
And thy hand upon the sword.
The
haughty heart derideth,
And the sinful lip reviles,
But the blessing
of the perishing
Around thy pillow smiles!
When to our cup of trembling
The added drop is given,
And the
long-suspended thunder
Falls terribly from Heaven,--
When a new
and fearful freedom
Is proffered of the Lord
To the
slow-consuming Famine,
The Pestilence and Sword!
When the refuges of Falsehood
Shall be swept away in wrath,
And
the temple shall be shaken,
With its idol, to the earth,
Shall not thy
words of warning
Be all remembered then?
And thy now unheeded
message
Burn in the hearts of men?
Oppression's hand may scatter
Its nettles on thy tomb,
And even
Christian bosoms
Deny thy memory room;
For lying lips shall
torture
Thy mercy into crime,
And the slanderer shall flourish
As
the bay-tree for a time.
But where the south-wind lingers
On Carolina's pines,
Or falls the
careless sunbeam
Down Georgia's golden mines;
Where now
beneath his burthen
The toiling slave is driven;

Where now a
tyrant's mockery
Is offered unto Heaven;

Where Mammon hath its altars
Wet o'er with human blood,
And
pride and lust debases
The workmanship of God,--
There shall thy
praise be spoken,
Redeemed from Falsehood's ban,
When the
fetters shall be broken,
And the slave shall be a man!
Joy to thy spirit, brother!
A thousand hearts are warm,
A thousand
kindred bosoms
Are baring to the storm.
What though red-handed
Violence
With secret Fraud combine?
The wall of fire is round us,

Our Present Help was thine.
Lo, the waking up of nations,
From Slavery's fatal sleep;
The
murmur of a Universe,
Deep calling unto Deep!
Joy to thy spirit,
brother!
On every wind of heaven
The onward cheer and summons

Of Freedom's voice is given!
Glory to God forever!
Beyond the despot's will
The soul of
Freedom liveth
Imperishable still.
The words which thou hast
uttered
Are of that soul a part,
And the good seed thou hast
scattered
Is springing from the heart.
In the evil days before us,
And the trials yet to come,
In the shadow
of the prison,
Or the cruel martyrdom,--
We will think of thee, O
brother!
And thy sainted name shall be
In the blessing of the
captive,
And the anthem of the free.
1834
LINES
ON THE DEATH OF S. OLIVER TORREY, SECRETARY OF
THE BOSTON YOUNG MEN'S ANTI-SLAVERY SOCIETY.
Gone before us, O our brother,
To the spirit-land!

Vainly look we
for another
In thy place to stand.
Who shall offer youth and beauty

On the wasting shrine
Of a stern and lofty duty,
With a faith like
thine?

Oh, thy gentle smile of greeting
Who again shall see?
Who amidst
the solemn meeting
Gaze again on thee?
Who when peril gathers
o'er us,
Wear so calm a brow?
Who, with evil men before us,
So
serene as thou?
Early hath the spoiler found thee,
Brother of our love!
Autumn's
faded earth around thee,
And its storms above!
Evermore that turf
lie lightly,
And, with future showers,
O'er thy slumbers fresh and
brightly
Blow the summer flowers
In the locks thy forehead gracing,
Not a silvery streak;
Nor a line of
sorrow's tracing
On thy fair young cheek;
Eyes of light and lips of
roses,
Such as Hylas wore,--
Over all that curtain closes,
Which
shall rise no more!
Will the vigil Love is keeping
Round that grave of thine,

Mournfully, like Jazer weeping
Over Sibmah's vine;
Will the
pleasant memories, swelling
Gentle hearts, of thee,
In the spirit's
distant dwelling
All unheeded be?
If the spirit ever gazes,
From its journeyings, back;
If the immortal
ever traces
O'er its mortal track;
Wilt thou not, O brother, meet us

Sometimes on our way,
And, in hours of sadness, greet us
As a
spirit may?
Peace be with thee, O our brother,
In the spirit-land
Vainly look we
for another
In thy place to stand.
Unto Truth and Freedom giving

All thy early powers,

Be thy virtues with the living,
And thy spirit
ours!
1837.
TO ------,
WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL.
"Get the writings of John Woolman by