John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
At SundownHaverhill. 1640–1890
O
We call the old time back to thee;
From forest paths and water-ways
The century-woven veil we raise.
Unheard its sounds that go and come;
We listen, through long-lapsing years,
To footsteps of the pioneers.
The wilderness returns again,
The drear, untrodden solitude,
The gloom and mystery of the wood!
The wolf repeats his hungry howl,
And, peering through his leafy screen,
The Indian’s copper face is seen.
Grave men and women anxious-eyed,
And wistful youth remembering still
Dear homes in England’s Haverhill.
Dark Passaquo and Saggahew,—
Wild chiefs, who owned the mighty sway
Of wizard Passaconaway.
By old tradition handed down,
In chance and change before us pass
Like pictures in a magic glass,—
The death-concealing ambuscade,
The winter march, through deserts wild,
Of captive mother, wife, and child.
And tamed the savage habitude
Of forests hiding beasts of prey,
And human shapes as fierce as they.
Slowly each year the corn-lands grew;
Nor fire, nor frost, nor foe could kill
The Saxon energy of will.
Was lack of sturdy manhood found,
And never failed the kindred good
Of brave and helpful womanhood.
Its log-built huts are palaces;
The wood-path of the settler’s cow
Is Traffic’s crowded highway now.
Along its southward sloping hill,
And overlooks on either hand
A rich and many-watered land.
As Pison was to Eden’s pair,
Our river to its valley brings
The blessing of its mountain springs.
From mart and crowd, her old-time grace,
And guards with fondly jealous arms
The wild growths of outlying farms.
Her autumn leaves by Saltonstall;
No lavished gold can richer make
Her opulence of hill and lake.
To kindle here their household fires,
And share the large content of all
Whose lines in pleasant places fall.
We prize the old inheritance,
And feel, as far and wide we roam,
That all we seek we leave at home.
Are apples on our orchard trees;
Our thrushes are our nightingales,
Our larks the blackbirds of our vales.
Is sweeter than our hillside ferns;
What tropic splendor can outvie
Our autumn woods, our sunset sky?
And left not affluence, but content,
Now flashes in our dazzled eyes
The electric light of enterprise;
Seems lost in keen activities,
And crowded workshops now replace
The hearth’s and farm-field’s rustic grace;
Life’s morning charm can quite despoil;
And youth and beauty, hand in hand,
Will always find enchanted land.
And skill and strength have equal gain,
And each shall each in honor hold,
And simple manhood outweigh gold.
That severs man from man shall fall,
For, here or there, salvation’s plan
Alone is love of God and man.
The heirs of centuries at your back,
Still reaping where you have not sown,
A broader field is now your own.
But let the free thought of the age
Its light and hope and sweetness add
To the stern faith the fathers had.
As waves that follow waves, we glide.
God grant we leave upon the shore
Some waif of good it lacked before;
Some added beauty to the earth;
Some larger hope, some thought to make
The sad world happier for its sake.
So may we live our little day
That only grateful hearts shall fill
The homes we leave in Haverhill.
Upon whose outmost verge of time
The shades of night are falling down,
I pray, God bless the good old town!