Read and reread our little store Of books and pamphlets, scarce a score; A single book was all we had,) Where Ellwood's meek, drab-skirted Muse, Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine, Its monthly gauge of snow and rain, We felt the stir of hall and street, The pulse of life that round us beat; Was melted in the genial glow; Wide swung again our ice-locked door, Clasp, Angel of the backward look Green hills of life that slope to death, And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees Shade off to mournful cypresses With the white amaranths underneath. Even while I look, I can but heed The restless sands' incessant fall, Importunate hours that hours succeed, Each clamorous with its own sharp need, And duty keeping pace with all. Shut down and clasp the heavy lids; I hear again the voice that bids The dreamer leave his dream midway For larger hopes and graver fears: Life greatens in these later years, The century's aloe flowers to-day! Yet, haply, in some lull of life, Some Truce of God which breaks its strife, - John Greenleaf Whittier THE PRISONER OF CHILLON: A FABLE SONNET ON CHILLON Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart — The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consigned To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar- for 't was trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! - May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God. I My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears. For they have been a dungeon's spoil, Six in youth, and one in age, Finished as they had begun, Proud of Persecution's rage; One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have sealed: Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied; Of whom this wreck is left the last. II gray, There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, And in each ring there is a chain; For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away, Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years - I cannot count them o'er, I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother drooped and died, And I lay living by his side. III They chained us each to a column stone, And we were three yet, each alone; We could not move a single pace, We could not see each other's face, |