The poem is the first ever published by the poet, and is his earliest known production.[11] The manuscript of it is now in the possession of Whittier's kinsman, Mr. S. T. Pickard, associate editor of the _Portland Transcript_, in which journal it was republished November 27, 1880:-- THE DEITY. The Prophet stood On the high mount and saw the tempest-cloud Pour the fierce whirlwind from its reservoir Of congregated gloom. The mountain oak Torn from the earth heaved high its roots where once Its branches waved. The fir-tree's shapely form Smote by the tempest lashed the mountain side; Yet, calm in conscious purity, the seer Beheld the awful devastation, for The Eternal Spirit moved not in the storm. The tempest ceased. The caverned earthquake burst Forth from its prison, and the mountain rocked Even to its base: The topmost crags were thrown With fearful crashing down its shuddering slopes. Unawed the Prophet saw and heard: He felt Not in the earthquake moved the God of Heaven. The murmur died away, and from the height, Torn by the storm and shattered by the shock, Rose far and clear a pyramid of flame, Mighty and vast! The startled mountain deer Shrank from its glare and cowered beneath the shade: The wild fowl shrieked; yet even then the seer Untrembling stood and marked the fearful glow-- For Israel's God came not within the flame. The fiery beacon sank. A still small voice Now caught the Prophet's ear. Its awful tone, Unlike to human sound, at once conveyed Deep awe and reverence to his pious heart. Then bowed the holy man; his face he veiled Within his mantle, and in meekness owned The presence of his God, discovered not in The storm, the earthquake, or the mighty flame, But in the still small whisper to his soul. [Footnote 11: See note on p. 301.] It is characteristic of the man that his first poem should be of a religious nature. There is grandeur and majesty in the poem. The rhetoric is juvenile, but the diction is strong, nervous, and intense, and the general impression made upon the mind is one of harmony and solemn stateliness, not unlike that of "Thanatopsis," composed by Bryant when he was about the same age as was Whittier when he wrote "The Deity." It was probably owing to its anonymity that the first impulse of the editor was to throw it into the waste-basket. But as he glanced over the sheet his attention was caught: he read it, and some weeks afterward published it in the poet's corner. But in the interval of waiting the boy's heart sank within him. Every writer knows what he suffered. Did we not all expect that first precious production of ours to fairly set the editor wild with enthusiasm, so that nothing short of death or apoplexy could prevent him from assigning it the most conspicuous position in the _very next issue_ of his paper?