Verse > John Greenleaf Whittier > The Poetical Works in Four Volumes
John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892).  The Poetical Works in Four Volumes.  1892.
Poems of Nature
The Last Walk in Autumn
  O’ER the bare woods, whose outstretched hands
    Plead with the leaden heavens in vain,
  I see, beyond the valley lands,
    The sea’s long level dim with rain.
  Around me all things, stark and dumb,        5
  Seem praying for the snows to come,
And, for the summer bloom and greenness gone,
With winter’s sunset lights and dazzling morn atone.
  Along the river’s summer walk,
    The withered tufts of asters nod;        10
  And trembles on its arid stalk
    The hoar plume of the golden-rod.
  And on a ground of sombre fir,
  And azure-studded juniper,
The silver birch its buds of purple shows,        15
And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild-rose!
  With mingled sound of horns and bells,
    A far-heard clang, the wild geese fly,
  Storm-sent, from Arctic moors and fells,
    Like a great arrow through the sky,        20
  Two dusky lines converged in one,
  Chasing the southward-flying sun;
While the brave snow-bird and the hardy jay
Call to them from the pines, as if to bid them stay.
  I passed this way a year ago:
    The wind blew south; the noon of day
  Was warm as June’s; and save that snow
    Flecked the low mountains far away,
  And that the vernal-seeming breeze
  Mocked faded grass and leafless trees,        30
I might have dreamed of summer as I lay,
Watching the fallen leaves with the soft wind at play.
  Since then, the winter blasts have piled
    The white pagodas of the snow
  On these rough slopes, and, strong and wild,        35
    Yon river, in its overflow
  Of spring-time rain and sun, set free,
  Crashed with its ices to the sea;
And over these gray fields, then green and gold,
The summer corn has waved, the thunder’s organ rolled.        40
  Rich gift of God! A year of time!
    What pomp of rise and shut of day,
  What hues wherewith our Northern clime
    Makes autumn’s dropping woodlands gay,
  What airs outblown from ferny dells,        45
  And clover-bloom and sweetbrier smells,
What songs of brooks and birds, what fruits and flowers,
Green woods and moonlit snows, have in its round been ours!
  I know not how, in other lands,
    The changing seasons come and go;        50
  What splendors fall on Syrian sands,
    What purple lights on Alpine snow!
  Nor how the pomp of sunrise waits
  On Venice at her watery gates;
A dream alone to me is Arno’s vale,        55
And the Alhambra’s halls are but a traveller’s tale.
  Yet, on life’s current, he who drifts
    Is one with him who rows or sails;
  And he who wanders widest lifts
    No more of beauty’s jealous veils        60
  Than he who from his doorway sees
  The miracle of flowers and trees,
Feels the warm Orient in the noonday air,
And from cloud minarets hears the sunset call to prayer!
  The eye may well be glad that looks
    Where Pharpar’s fountains rise and fall;
  But he who sees his native brooks
    Laugh in the sun, has seen them all.
  The marble palaces of Ind
  Rise round him in the snow and wind;        70
From his lone sweetbrier Persian Hafiz smiles,
And Rome’s cathedral awe is in his woodland aisles.
  And thus it is my fancy blends
    The near at hand and far and rare;
  And while the same horizon bends        75
    Above the silver-sprinkled hair
  Which flashed the light of morning skies
  On childhood’s wonder-lifted eyes,
Within its round of sea and sky and field,
Earth wheels with all her zones, the Kosmos stands revealed.        80
  And thus the sick man on his bed,
    The toiler to his task-work bound,
  Behold their prison-walls outspread,
    Their clipped horizon widen round!
  While freedom-giving fancy waits,        85
  Like Peter’s angel at the gates,
The power is theirs to baffle care and pain,
To bring the lost world back, and make it theirs again!
  What lack of goodly company,
    When masters of the ancient lyre        90
  Obey my call, and trace for me
    Their words of mingled tears and fire!
  I talk with Bacon, grave and wise,
  I read the world with Pascal’s eyes;
And priest and sage, with solemn brows austere,        95
And poets, garland-bound, the Lords of Thought, draw near.
  Methinks, O friend, I hear thee say,
    “In vain the human heart we mock;
  Bring living guests who love the day,
    Not ghosts who fly at crow of cock!        100
  The herbs we share with flesh and blood
  Are better than ambrosial food
With laurelled shades.” I grant it, nothing loath,
But doubly blest is he who can partake of both.
  He who might Plato’s banquet grace,
    Have I not seen before me sit,
  And watched his puritanic face,
    With more than Eastern wisdom lit?
  Shrewd mystic! who, upon the back
  Of his Poor Richard’s Almanac,        110
Writing the Sufi’s song, the Gentoo’s dream,
Links Manu’s age of thought to Fulton’s age of steam!
  Here too, of answering love secure,
    Have I not welcomed to my hearth
  The gentle pilgrim troubadour,        115
    Whose songs have girdled half the earth;
  Whose pages, like the magic mat
  Whereon the Eastern lover sat,
Have borne me over Rhine-land’s purple vines,
And Nubia’s tawny sands, and Phrygia’s mountain pines!        120
  And he, who to the lettered wealth
    Of ages adds the lore unpriced,
  The wisdom and the moral health,
    The ethics of the school of Christ;
  The statesman to his holy trust,        125
  As the Athenian archon, just,
Struck down, exiled like him for truth alone,
Has he not graced my home with beauty all his own?
  What greetings smile, what farewells wave,
    What loved ones enter and depart!        130
  The good, the beautiful, the brave,
    The Heaven-lent treasures of the heart!
  How conscious seems the frozen sod
  And beechen slope whereon they trod!
The oak-leaves rustle, and the dry grass bends        135
Beneath the shadowy feet of lost or absent friends.
  Then ask not why to these bleak hills
    I cling, as clings the tufted moss,
  To bear the winter’s lingering chills,
    The mocking spring’s perpetual loss.        140
  I dream of lands where summer smiles,
  And soft winds blow from spicy isles,
But scarce would Ceylon’s breath of flowers be sweet,
Could I not feel thy soil, New England, at my feet!
  At times I long for gentler skies,
    And bathe in dreams of softer air,
  But homesick tears would fill the eyes
    That saw the Cross without the Bear.
  The pine must whisper to the palm,
  The north-wind break the tropic calm;        150
And with the dreamy languor of the Line,
The North’s keen virtue blend, and strength to beauty join.
  Better to stem with heart and hand
    The roaring tide of life, than lie,
  Unmindful, on its flowery strand,        155
    Of God’s occasions drifting by!
  Better with naked nerve to bear
  The needles of this goading air,
Than, in the lap of sensual ease, forego
The godlike power to do, the godlike aim to know.        160
  Home of my heart! to me more fair
    Than gay Versailles or Windsor’s halls,
  The painted, shingly town-house where
    The freeman’s vote for Freedom falls!
  The simple roof where prayer is made,        165
  Than Gothic groin and colonnade;
The living temple of the heart of man,
Than Rome’s sky-mocking vault, or many-spired Milan!
  More dear thy equal village schools,
    Where rich and poor the Bible read,        170
  Than classic halls where Priestcraft rules,
    And Learning wears the chains of Creed;
  Thy glad Thanksgiving, gathering in
  The scattered sheaves of home and kin,
Than the mad license ushering Lenten pains,        175
Or holidays of slaves who laugh and dance in chains.
  And sweet homes nestle in these dales,
    And perch along these wooded swells;
  And, blest beyond Arcadian vales,
    They hear the sound of Sabbath bells!        180
  Here dwells no perfect man sublime,
  Nor woman winged before her time,
But with the faults and follies of the race,
Old home-bred virtues hold their not unhonored place.
  Here manhood struggles for the sake
    Of mother, sister, daughter, wife,
  The graces and the loves which make
    The music of the march of life;
  And woman, in her daily round
  Of duty, walks on holy ground.        190
No unpaid menial tills the soil, nor here
Is the bad lesson learned at human rights to sneer.
  Then let the icy north-wind blow
    The trumpets of the coming storm,
  To arrowy sleet and blinding snow        195
    Yon slanting lines of rain transform.
  Young hearts shall hail the drifted cold,
  As gayly as I did of old;
And I, who watch them through the frosty pane,
Unenvious, live in them my boyhood o’er again.        200
  And I will trust that He who heeds
    The life that hides in mead and wold,
  Who hangs yon alder’s crimson beads,
    And stains these mosses green and gold,
  Will still, as He hath done, incline        205
  His gracious care to me and mine;
Grant what we ask aright, from wrong debar,
And, as the earth grows dark, make brighter every star!
  I have not seen, I may not see,
    My hopes for man take form in fact,        210
  But God will give the victory
    In due time; in that faith I act.
  And he who sees the future sure,
  The baffling present may endure,
And bless, meanwhile, the unseen Hand that leads        215
The heart’s desires beyond the halting step of deeds.
  And thou, my song, I send thee forth,
    Where harsher songs of mine have flown;
  Go, find a place at home and hearth
    Where’er thy singer’s name is known;        220
  Revive for him the kindly thought
  Of friends; and they who love him not,
Touched by some strain of thine, perchance may take
The hand he proffers all, and thank him for thy sake.


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