There, syllabled by silence, let me hear The still small voice which reached the prophet's ear; Read in my heart a still diviner law sin, Recall my wandering fancies, and re strain The sore disquiet of a restless brain; And, as the path of duty is made plain, May grace be given that I may walk therein, Not like the hireling, for his selfish gain, With backward glances and reluctant tread, Making a merit of his coward dread, But, cheerful, in the light around me thrown, Walking as one to pleasant service led; Doing God's will as if it were my own, Yet trusting not in mine, but in his strength alone! 1852. THE POOR VOTER ON ELECTION DAY THE proudest now is but my peer, To-day alike are great and small, Who serves to-day upon the list The weak is strong to-day; And sleekest broadcloth counts no more To-day let pomp and vain pretence I set a plain man's common sense 10 1 When I was fourteen years old my first schoolmaster, Joshua Coffin, the able, eccentric historian of Newbury, brought with him to our house a volume of Burns's poems, from which he read, greatly to my delight. I begged him to leave the book with me, and set myself at once to the task of mastering the glossary of the Scottish dialect at its close. This was about the first poetry I had ever read (with the exception of that of the Bible, of which I had been a close student), and it had a lasting influence upon me. I began to make rhymes myself, and to imagine stories and adventures. (WHITTIER, in his Autobiographical Letter; Carpenter's Whittier, pp. 298-299.) One day we had a call from a 'pawky auld carle' of a wandering Scotchman. To him I owe my first introduction to the songs of Burns. After eating his bread and cheese and drinking his mug of cider he gave us 'Bonny Doon,' 'Highland Mary' and 'Auld Lang Syne.' He had a rich, full voice, and entered heartily into the spirit of his lyrics. I have since listened to the same melodies from the lips of Dempster, than whom the Scottish bard has had no sweeter or truer interpreter ; but the skilful performance of the artist lacked the novel charm of the gaberlunzie's singing in the old farmhouse kitchen. (WHITTIER, Yankee Gypsies,' in his Prose Works, vol. i, pp. 336-337; also quoted in Carpenter's Whittier, p. 30.) Sweet day, sweet songs! The golden It died upon the eye and ear, hours No inward answer gaining; No heart had I to see or hear The discord and the staining. Let those who never erred forget Lament who will the ribald line 70 |