Every eye was lifted to Whittier as he stood erect as the pines above him, lithe in his motions as the watching birds and with somewhat of their unexpectedness in movement. In his hand he held his poem. Would he read it himself? At first it appeared so to those who did not know him well. For he stood for a little time still holding it in his hand. And in that moment--to the writer at least--was enacted a by-play, in itself slight enough, but, if understood, giving the key to the whole complex character of Whittier. For the Quaker poet stood with his hat on. Even in passing his poem to another to be read, he would be obliged to answer by a few words the demand made upon him. To do this he must take off his hat, as other men would do. His hand was lifted toward it. Midway, however, it paused--Quakers spoke with their hats on. Yet the distinguished gathering before him was chiefly not of his own sect. A proper consideration for the customs of society--yes, even courtesy--demanded this removal; and to social impressions the poet was very sensitive. Yet, to one other monitor was he still more sensitive. That unbending principle which governed his whole life asserted itself. Even in so slight a matter he would be true to his faith. His hand dropped by his side. It was with his hat on that he spoke the few apt words with which he gave his poem to be read. Small wonder that “Revisited” was a paean to Him who in the return of peace had given, not to the anti-slavery party alone, but to the whole country, “... beauty for ashes And the oil of joy for mourning long.” And it was small wonder that to the river the poet sang: “Sing soft, sing low, our lowland river, Under thy banks of laurel bloom; Softly and sweet as the hour beseemeth, Sing us the songs of peace and home. “Type of the Northland’s strength and glory, Pride and hope of our home and race,-- Freedom lending to rugged labor Tints of beauty and lines of grace. “For though by the Master’s feet untrodden, Though never His word has stilled thy waves, Well for us may thy shores be holy, With Christian altars and saintly graves.” The whole poem is full of noble thought and rhythmic beauty: “Sing on! bring down, O lowland river, The joy of the hills to the waiting sea; The wealth of the vales, the pomp of mountains, The breath of the woodlands, bear with thee.” XX In 1890, when Haverhill, his native town, was to celebrate its two hundred and fiftieth anniversary, Whittier was called upon for a poem. He wrote to his friend, Col. F----: “I find I cannot write a hymn or anything to be sung, but I shall have a poem of perhaps one hundred lines. I am afraid it will not amount to much, but it will show my good will at least. If needed, I can have it ready by the middle of the month.”