Across the mournful marbles play;
Who hath not learned in hours of faith
The truth to flesh and sense unknown—
That Life is ever Lord of Death,
And Love can never lose its own!”
This is true poetry, sad and sweet as a mother’s voice when she lulls her sick babe to rest, knowing that, if he sleep, he shall live.
In Whittier’s verse we often catch the unmistakable accent of genuine feeling, and his best lyrics are so artless and simple that they almost disarm criticism. In many ways his influence has doubtless been good; and the critic, whose eye is naturally drawn to what is less worthy, finds it easy to carp at faults which he has not the ability to commit.
[134] The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier. Boston: Osgood & Co. 1876.