Almost all of Whittier's lyrics have evidently been rapidly written, poured forth in the first glow of feeling, and not carefully amended and polished as were Longfellow's works. And herein he is at fault, as was Byron. But the delicate health of Whittier, and his toilsome early days, form an excuse for his deficiency in this respect. His later creations, the product of his leisure years, are full of pure and flawless music. They have no harmony or rhythmic volume of sound, as in Tennyson, Swinburne, Milton, and Shakspere; but they set themselves to simple melodious airs spontaneously. As you read them, your feet begin to tap time,--only the music is that of a good rural choir rather than that of an orchestra. * * * * * The thought of each poem is generally conveyed to the reader's understanding with the utmost lucidity. There is no mysticism, no obscurity. The story or thought unfolds itself naturally, and without fatigue to our minds. A great many poems are indeed spun out at too great length; but the central idea to be conveyed is rarely lost sight of. * * * * * To the list of his virtues as an artist, it remains to add his frequent surprising strength. This is naturally most marked in the anti-slavery poems. When he wrote these, he was in the flush of manhood, his soul at a white heat of moral indignation. He is occasionally nerved to almost super-human effort: it is the battle-axe of Richard thundering at the gates of Front de Boeuf. For nervous energy, there is nothing in the Hebrew prophets finer than such passages as these:-- "Strike home, strong-hearted man! Down to the root Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel." _To Ronge._ "Maddened by Earth's wrong and evil, 'Lord!' I cried in sudden ire, 'From thy right hand, clothed with thunder, Shake the bolted fire!'" _What the Voice Said._ "Hands off! thou tithe-fat plunderer! play No trick of priestcraft here! Back, puny lordling! darest thou lay A hand on Elliott's bier? Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust, Beneath his feet he trod: He knew the locust-swarm that cursed The harvest-fields of God. "On these pale lips, the smothered thought Which England's millions feel, A fierce and fearful splendor caught, As from his forge the steel. Strong-armed as Thor,--a shower of fire His smitten anvil flung; God's curse, Earth's wrong, dumb Hunger's ire,-- He gave them all a tongue!" _Elliott._ "And Law, an unloosed maniac, strong, Blood-drunken, through the blackness trod, Hoarse-shouting in the ear of God The blasphemy of wrong." _The Rendition._ "All grim and soiled, and brown with tan, I saw a Strong One, in his wrath, Smiting the godless shrines of man Along his path." _The Reformer._