Yet there 's a mystery in song—
A halo round the way
Of him who seeks the muses' throng—
An intellectual ray,
A source of pure, unfading joy—
A dream that earth can ne'er destroy.
And though the critic's scornful eye
Condemn his faltering lay,
And though with heartless apathy,
The cold world turn away—
And envy strive with secret aim,
To blast and dim his rising fame;
Yet fresh, amid the blast that brings
Such poison on its breath,
Above the wreck of meaner things,
His lyre's unfading wreath
Shall bloom, when those who scorned his lay
With name and power have passed away.
Come then, my lyre, although there be
No witchery in thy tone;
And though the lofty harmony
Which other bards have known,
Is not, and cannot e'er be mine,
To touch with power those chords of thine.
Yet thou canst tell, in humble strain,
The feelings of a heart,
Which, though not proud, would still disdain
To bear a meaner part,
Than that of bending at the shrine
Where their bright wreaths the muses twine.
Thou canst not give me wealth or fame;
Thou hast no power to shed
The halo of a deathless name
Around my last cold bed;
To other chords than thine belong
The breathings of immortal song.
Yet come, my lyre! some hearts may beat
Responsive to thy lay;
The tide of sympathy may meet
Thy master's lonely way;
And kindred souls from envy free
May listen to its minstrelsy.
8th month, 1827.
During the first months of Whittier's editorship of the "New England Review" at Hartford, his contributions of verse to that paper were numerous—in some cases three of his poems appearing in a single number, as in the issue of October 18, 1830. Two of these are signed with his initials, but the one here given has no signature. That it is his is made evident by the fact that all but one stanza of it appears in "Moll Pitcher," published two years later. It was probably because of the self-assertion of the concluding lines that the omitted stanza was canceled, and these lines reveal the ambition then stirring his young blood.
NEW ENGLAND
Land of the forest and the rock—
Of dark blue lake and mighty river—
Of mountains reared aloft to mock
The storm's career—the lightning's shock,—
My own green land forever!—
Land of the beautiful and brave—
The freeman's home—the martyr's grave—
The nursery of giant men,
Whose deeds have linked with every glen,
And every hill and every stream,
The romance of some warrior dream!—
Oh never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love—
The stream beneath the green hill flowing—
The broad-armed trees above it growing—
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;—
Or hear unmoved the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New England born;—
Or mark the stranger's Jaguar hand
Disturb the ashes of thy dead—
The buried glory of a land
Whose soil with noble blood is red,
And sanctified in every part,
Nor feel resentment like a brand
Unsheathing from his fiery heart!