Pennsylvania
by John Greenleaf Whittier�(1807�1892) |
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NEVER in tenderer quiet lapsed the day
From
Pennsylvania's vales of spring away,
Where,
forest-walled, the scattered hamlets lay
Along the
wedded rivers. One long bar
Of purple cloud, on which the
evening star
Shone like a jewel on a scimitar,
Held the sky's golden gateway. Through the deep
Hush of
the woods a murmur seemed to creep,
The Schuylkill
whispering in a voice of sleep.
All else was still.
The oxen from their ploughs
Rested at last, and from
their long day's browse
Came the dun files of Krisheim's
home-bound cows.
And the young city, round whose
virgin zone
The rivers like two mighty arms were thrown,
Marked by the smoke of evening fires alone,
Lay in
the distance, lovely even then
With its fair women and
its stately men
Gracing the forest court of William Penn,
Urban yet sylvan; in its rough-hewn frames
Of oak and
pine the dryads held their claims,
And lent its streets
their pleasant woodland names.
* * * * *
Was it
caressing air, the brooding love
Of tenderer skies than
German land knew of,
Green calm below, blue quietness
above,
Still flow of water, deep repose of wood
That, with a sense of loving Fatherhood
And childlike
trust in the Eternal Good,
Softened all hearts, and
dulled the edge of hate,
Hushed strife, and taught
impatient zeal to wait
The slow assurance of the better
state?
Who knows what goadings in their sterner way
O'er jagged ice, relieved by granite gray,
Blew round the
men of Massachusetts Bay?
What hate of heresy the
east-wind woke?
What hints of pitiless power and terror
spoke
In waves that on their iron coast-line broke?
Be it as it may; within the Land of Penn
The sectary
yielded to the citizen,
And peaceful dwelt the many-creeded
men.
Peace brooded over all. No trumpet stung
The
air to madness, and no steeple flung
Alarums down from
bells at midnight rung.
The land slept well. The
Indian from his face
Washed all his war-paint off, and in
the place
Of battle-marches sped the peaceful chase,
Or wrought for wages at the white man's side,�
Giving
to kindness what his native pride
And lazy freedom to all
else denied.
And well the curious scholar loved the
old
Traditions that his swarthy neighbors told
By
wigwam-fires when nights were growing cold,
Discerned
the fact round which their fancy drew
Its dreams, and
held their childish faith more true
To God and man than
half the creeds he knew.
The desert blossomed round
him; wheat-fields rolled,
Beneath the warm wind, waves of
green and gold;
The planted ear returned its hundredfold.
Great clusters ripened in a warmer sun
Than that
which by the Rhine stream shines upon
The purpling
hillsides with low vines o'errun.
About each rustic
porch the humming-bird
Tried with light bill, that scarce
a petal stirred,
The Old World flowers to virgin soil
transferred;
And the first-fruits of pear and apple,
bending
The young boughs down, their gold and russet
blending,
Made glad his heart, familiar odors lending
To the fresh fragrance of the birch and pine,
Life-everlasting, bay, and eglantine,
And all the subtle
scents the woods combine.
Fair First-Day mornings,
steeped in summer calm
Warm, tender, restful, sweet with
woodland balm,
Came to him, like some mother-hallowed
psalm
To the tired grinder at the noisy wheel
Of
labor, winding off from memory's reel
A golden thread of
music. With no peal
Of bells to call them to the
house of praise,
The scattered settlers through green
forest-ways
Walked meeting-ward. In reverent amaze
The Indian trapper saw them, from the dim
Shade of
the alders on the rivulet's rim,
Seek the Great Spirit's
house to talk with Him.
There, through the gathered
stillness multiplied
And made intense by sympathy,
outside
The sparrows sang, and the gold-robin cried,
A-swing upon his elm. A faint perfume
Breathed
through the open windows of the room
From locust-trees,
heavy with clustered bloom.
Thither, perchance,
sore-tried confessors came,
Whose fervor jail nor pillory
could tame,
Proud of the cropped ears meant to be their
shame,�
Men who had eaten slavery's bitter bread
In Indian isles; pale women who had bled
Under the
hangman's lash, and bravely said
God's message
through their prison's iron bars;
And gray old
soldier-converts, seamed with scars
From every stricken
field of England's wars
Lowly before the Unseen
Presence knelt
Each waiting heart, till haply some one
felt
On his moved lips the seal of silence melt.
Or, without spoken words, low breathings stole
Of a
diviner life from soul to soul,
Baptizing in one tender
thought the whole.
When shaken hands announced the
meeting o'er,
The friendly group still lingered at the
door,
Greeting, inquiring, sharing all the store
Of weekly tidings. Meanwhile youth and maid
Down the
green vistas of the woodland strayed,
Whispered and
smiled and oft their feet delayed.
Did the boy's
whistle answer back the thrushes?
Did light girl laughter
ripple through the bushes
As brooks make merry over roots
and rushes?
Unvexed the sweet air seemed. Without a
wound
The ear of silence heard, and every sound
Its
place in nature's fine accordance found.
And solemn
meeting, summer sky and wood, 115
Old kindly faces, youth
and maidenhood
Seemed, like God's new creation, very
good! |
By John Greenleaf Whittier�(1807�1892)
Listed August 8, 2014 |
|
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