Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers
General
Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers
American literature
A prompt, decisive man, no breath
Our father wasted: “Boys, a path!”
Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy
Count such a summons less than joy?)
Our buskins on our feet we drew;
With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,
To guard our necks and ears from snow,
We cut the solid whiteness through,
And, where the drift was deepest, made
A tunnel walled and overlaid
With dazzling crystal: we had read
Of rare Aladdin’s wondrous cave,
And to our own his name we gave,
With many a wish the luck were ours
To test his lamp’s supernal powers.
* * * * *
ICHABOD.
The following poem was written on hearing of Daniel Webster’s
course in supporting the “Compromise Measure,” including the
“Fugitive Slave Law”. This speech was delivered in the United
States Senate on the 7th of March, 1850, and greatly incensed
the Abolitionists. Mr. Whittier, in common with many New
Englanders, regarded it as the certain downfall of Mr. Webster.
The lines are full of tender regret, deep grief and touching
pathos.
SO fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!
The glory from his gray hairs gone
For evermore!
Revile him not,――the Tempter hath
A snare for all!
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
Befit his fall.
Oh! dumb be passion’s stormy rage,
When he who might
Have lighted up and led his age
Falls back in night.
Scorn! would the angels laugh to mark
A bright soul driven,
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
From hope and heaven?
Let not the land, once proud of him,
Insult him now,
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim
Dishonor’d brow.
But let its humbled sons, instead,
From sea to lake,
A long lament, as for the dead,
In sadness make.
Of all we loved and honor’d, nought
Save power remains,――
A fallen angel’s pride of thought
Still strong in chains.
All else is gone; from those great eyes
The soul has fled:
When faith is lost, when honor dies,
The man is dead!
Then pay the reverence of old days
To his dead fame;
Walk backward with averted gaze,
And hide the shame!
Illustration: SOUVENIR OF WHITTIER
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
POET, ESSAYIST AND HUMORIST.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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