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John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.

Narrative and Legendary Poems

The Preacher

  • George Whitefield, the celebrated preacher, died at Newburyport in 1770, and was buried under the church which has since borne his name.

  • ITS windows flashing to the sky,

    Beneath a thousand roofs of brown,

    Far down the vale, my friend and I

    Beheld the old and quiet town;

    The ghostly sails that out at sea

    Flapped their white wings of mystery;

    The beaches glimmering in the sun,

    And the low wooded capes that run

    Into the sea-mist north and south;

    The sand-bluffs at the river’s mouth;

    The swinging chain-bridge, and, afar,

    The foam-line of the harbor-bar.

    Over the woods and meadow-lands

    A crimson-tinted shadow lay,

    Of clouds through which the setting day

    Flung a slant glory far away.

    It glittered on the wet sea-sands,

    It flamed upon the city’s panes,

    Smote the white sails of ships that wore

    Outward or in, and glided o’er

    The steeples with their veering vanes!

    Awhile my friend with rapid search

    O’erran the landscape. “Yonder spire

    Over gray roofs, a shaft of fire;

    What is it, pray?”—“The Whitefield Church!

    Walled about by its basement stones,

    There rest the marvellous prophet’s bones.”

    Then as our homeward way we walked,

    Of the great preacher’s life we talked;

    And through the mystery of our theme

    The outward glory seemed to stream,

    And Nature’s self interpreted

    The doubtful record of the dead;

    And every level beam that smote

    The sails upon the dark afloat

    A symbol of the light became,

    Which touched the shadows of our blame,

    With tongues of Pentecostal flame.

    Over the roofs of the pioneers

    Gathers the moss of a hundred years;

    On man and his works has passed the change

    Which needs must be in a century’s range.

    The land lies open and warm in the sun,

    Anvils clamor and mill-wheels run,—

    Flocks on the hillsides, herds on the plain,

    The wilderness gladdened with fruit and grain!

    But the living faith of the settlers old

    A dead profession their children hold;

    To the lust of office and greed of trade

    A stepping-stone is the altar made.

    The Church, to place and power the door,

    Rebukes the sin of the world no more,

    Nor sees its Lord in the homeless poor.

    Everywhere is the grasping hand,

    And eager adding of land to land;

    And earth, which seemed to the fathers meant

    But as a pilgrim’s wayside tent,—

    A nightly shelter to fold away

    When the Lord should call at the break of day,—

    Solid and steadfast seems to be,

    And Time has forgotten Eternity!

    But fresh and green from the rotting roots

    Of primal forests the young growth shoots;

    From the death of the old the new proceeds,

    And the life of truth from the rot of creeds:

    On the ladder of God, which upward leads,

    The steps of progress are human needs.

    For His judgments still are a mighty deep,

    And the eyes of His providence never sleep:

    When the night is darkest He gives the morn;

    When the famine is sorest, the wine and corn!

    In the church of the wilderness Edwards wrought,

    Shaping his creed at the forge of thought;

    And with Thor’s own hammer welded and bent

    The iron links of his argument,

    Which strove to grasp in its mighty span

    The purpose of God and the fate of man!

    Yet faithful still, in his daily round

    To the weak, and the poor, and sin-sick found,

    The schoolman’s lore and the casuist’s art

    Drew warmth and life from his fervent heart.

    Had he not seen in the solitudes

    Of his deep and dark Northampton woods

    A vision of love about him fall?

    Not the blinding splendor which fell on Saul,

    But the tenderer glory that rests on them

    Who walk in the New Jerusalem,

    Where never the sun nor moon are known,

    But the Lord and His love are the light alone!

    And watching the sweet, still countenance

    Of the wife of his bosom rapt in trance,

    Had he not treasured each broken word

    Of the mystical wonder seen and heard;

    And loved the beautiful dreamer more

    That thus to the desert of earth she bore

    Clusters of Eshcol from Canaan’s shore?

    As the barley-winnower, holding with pain

    Aloft in waiting his chaff and grain,

    Joyfully welcomes the far-off breeze

    Sounding the pine-tree’s slender keys,

    So he who had waited long to hear

    The sound of the Spirit drawing near,

    Like that which the son of Iddo heard

    When the feet of angels the myrtles stirred,

    Felt the answer of prayer, at last,

    As over his church the afflatus passed,

    Breaking its sleep as breezes break

    To sun-bright ripples a stagnant lake.

    At first a tremor of silent fear,

    The creep of the flesh at danger near,

    A vague foreboding and discontent,

    Over the hearts of the people went.

    All nature warned in sounds and signs:

    The wind in the tops of the forest pines

    In the name of the Highest called to prayer,

    As the muezzin calls from the minaret stair.

    Through ceilëd chambers of secret sin

    Sudden and strong the light shone in;

    A guilty sense of his neighbor’s needs

    Startled the man of title-deeds;

    The trembling hand of the worldling shook

    The dust of years from the Holy Book;

    And the psalms of David, forgotten long,

    Took the place of the scoffer’s song.

    The impulse spread like the outward course

    Of waters moved by a central force;

    The tide of spiritual life rolled down

    From inland mountains to seaboard town.

    Prepared and ready the altar stands

    Waiting the prophet’s outstretched hands

    And prayer availing, to downward call

    The fiery answer in view of all.

    Hearts are like wax in the furnace; who

    Shall mould, and shape, and cast them anew?

    Lo! by the Merrimac Whitefield stands

    In the temple that never was made by hands,—

    Curtains of azure, and crystal wall,

    And dome of the sunshine over all—

    A homeless pilgrim, with dubious name

    Blown about on the winds of fame;

    Now as an angel of blessing classed,

    And now as a mad enthusiast.

    Called in his youth to sound and gauge

    The moral lapse of his race and age,

    And, sharp as truth, the contrast draw

    Of human frailty and perfect law;

    Possessed by the one dread thought that lent

    Its goad to his fiery temperament,

    Up and down the world he went,

    A John the Baptist crying, Repent!

    No perfect whole can our nature make;

    Here or there the circle will break;

    The orb of life as it takes the light

    On one side leaves the other in night.

    Never was saint so good and great

    As to give no chance at St. Peter’s gate

    For the plea of the Devil’s advocate.

    So, incomplete by his being’s law,

    The marvellous preacher had his flaw;

    With step unequal, and lame with faults,

    His shade on the path of History halts.

    Wisely and well said the Eastern bard:

    Fear is easy, but love is hard,—

    Easy to glow with the Santon’s rage,

    And walk on the Meccan pilgrimage;

    But he is greatest and best who can

    Worship Allah by loving man.

    Thus he,—to whom, in the painful stress

    Of zeal on fire from its own excess,

    Heaven seemed so vast and earth so small

    That man was nothing, since God was all,—

    Forgot, as the best at times have done,

    That the love of the Lord and of man are one.

    Little to him whose feet unshed

    The thorny path of the desert trod,

    Careless of pain, so it led to God,

    Seemed the hunger-pang and the poor man’s wrong,

    The weak ones trodden beneath the strong.

    Should the worm be chooser?—the clay withstand

    The shaping will of the potter’s hand?

    In the Indian fable Arjoon hears

    The scorn of a god rebuke his fears:

    “Spare thy pity!” Krishna saith;

    “Not in thy sword is the power of death!

    All is illusion,—loss but seems;

    Pleasure and pain are only dreams;

    Who deems he slayeth doth not kill;

    Who counts as slain is living still.

    Strike, nor fear thy blow is crime;

    Nothing dies but the cheats of time;

    Slain or slayer, small the odds

    To each, immortal as Indra’s gods!”

    So by Savannah’s banks of shade,

    The stones of his mission the preacher laid

    On the heart of the negro crushed and rent,

    And made of his blood the wall’s cement;

    Bade the slave-ship speed from coast to coast,

    Fanned by the wings of the Holy Ghost;

    And begged, for the love of Christ, the gold

    Coined from the hearts in its groaning hold.

    What could it matter, more or less

    Of stripes, and hunger, and weariness?

    Living or dying, bond or free,

    What was time to eternity?

    Alas for the preacher’s cherished schemes!

    Mission and church are now but dreams;

    Nor prayer nor fasting availed the plan

    To honor God through the wrong of man.

    Of all his labors no trace remains

    Save the bondman lifting his hands in chains.

    The woof he wove in the righteous warp

    Of freedom-loving Oglethorpe,

    Clothes with curses the goodly land,

    Changes its greenness and bloom to sand;

    And a century’s lapse reveals once more

    The slave-ship stealing to Georgia’s shore.

    Father of Light! how blind is he

    Who sprinkles the altar he rears to Thee

    With the blood and tears of humanity!

    He erred: shall we count His gifts as naught?

    Was the work of God in him unwrought?

    The servant may through his deafness err,

    And blind may be God’s messenger;

    But the errand is sure they go upon,—

    The word is spoken, the deed is done.

    Was the Hebrew temple less fair and good

    That Solomon bowed to gods of wood?

    For his tempted heart and wandering feet,

    Were the songs of David less pure and sweet?

    So in light and shadow the preacher went,

    God’s erring and human instrument;

    And the hearts of the people where he passed

    Swayed as the reeds sway in the blast,

    Under the spell of a voice which took

    In its compass the flow of Siloa’s brook,

    And the mystical chime of the bells of gold

    On the ephod’s hem of the priest of old,—

    Now the roll of thunder, and now the awe

    Of the trumpet heard in the Mount of Law.

    A solemn fear on the listening crowd

    Fell like the shadow of a cloud.

    The sailor reeling from out the ships

    Whose masts stood thick in the river-slips

    Felt the jest and the curse die on his lips.

    Listened the fisherman rude and hard,

    The calker rough from the builder’s yard;

    The man of the market left his load,

    The teamster leaned on his bending goad,

    The maiden, and youth beside her, felt

    Their hearts in a closer union melt,

    And saw the flowers of their love in bloom

    Down the endless vistas of life to come.

    Old age sat feebly brushing away

    From his ears the scanty locks of gray;

    And careless boyhood, living the free

    Unconscious life of bird and tree,

    Suddenly wakened to a sense

    Of sin and its guilty consequence.

    It was as if an angel’s voice

    Called the listeners up for their final choice;

    As if a strong hand rent apart

    The veils of sense from soul and heart,

    Showing in light ineffable

    The joys of heaven and woes of hell!

    All about in the misty air

    The hills seemed kneeling in silent prayer;

    The rustle of leaves, the moaning sedge,

    The water’s lap on its gravelled edge,

    The wailing pines, and, far and faint,

    The wood-dove’s note of sad complaint,—

    To the solemn voice of the preacher lent

    An undertone as of low lament;

    And the rote of the sea from its sandy coast,

    On the easterly wind, now heard, now lost,

    Seemed the murmurous sound of the judgment host.

    Yet wise men doubted, and good men wept,

    As that storm of passion above them swept,

    And, comet-like, adding flame to flame,

    The priests of the new Evangel came,—

    Davenport, flashing upon the crowd,

    Charged like summer’s electric cloud,

    Now holding the listener still as death

    With terrible warnings under breath,

    Now shouting for joy, as if he viewed

    The vision of Heaven’s beatitude!

    And Celtic Tennant, his long coat bound

    Like a monk’s with leathern girdle round,

    Wild with the toss of unshorn hair,

    And wringing of hands, and eyes aglare,

    Groaning under the world’s despair!

    Grave pastors, grieving their flocks to lose,

    Prophesied to the empty pews

    That gourds would wither, and mushrooms die,

    And noisiest fountains run soonest dry,

    Like the spring that gushed in Newbury Street,

    Under the tramp of the earthquake’s feet,

    A silver shaft in the air and light,

    For a single day, then lost in night,

    Leaving only, its place to tell,

    Sandy fissure and sulphurous smell.

    With zeal wing-clipped and white-heat cool,

    Moved by the spirit in grooves of rule,

    No longer harried, and cropped, and fleeced,

    Flogged by sheriff and cursed by priest,

    But by wiser counsels left at ease

    To settle quietly on his lees,

    And, self-concentred, to count as done

    The work which his fathers well begun,

    In silent protest of letting alone,

    The Quaker kept the way of his own,—

    A non-conductor among the wires,

    With coat of asbestos proof to fires.

    And quite unable to mend his pace

    To catch the falling manna of grace,

    He hugged the closer his little store

    Of faith, and silently prayed for more.

    And vague of creed and barren of rite,

    But holding, as in his Master’s sight,

    Act and thought to the inner light,

    The round of his simple duties walked,

    And strove to live what the others talked.

    And who shall marvel if evil went

    Step by step with the good intent,

    And with love and meekness, side by side,

    Lust of the flesh and spiritual pride?—

    That passionate longings and fancies vain

    Set the heart on fire and crazed the brain?

    That over the holy oracles

    Folly sported with cap and bells?

    That goodly women and learned men

    Marvelling told with tongue and pen

    How unweaned children chirped like birds

    Texts of Scripture and solemn words,

    Like the infant seers of the rocky glens

    In the Puy de Dome of wild Cevennes:

    Or baby Lamas who pray and preach

    From Tartar cradles in Buddha’s speech?

    In the war which Truth or Freedom wages

    With impious fraud and the wrong of ages,

    Hate and malice and self-love mar

    The notes of triumph with painful jar,

    And the helping angels turn aside

    Their sorrowing faces the shame to hide.

    Never on custom’s oilëd grooves

    The world to a higher level moves,

    But grates and grinds with friction hard

    On granite boulder and flinty shard.

    The heart must bleed before it feels,

    The pool be troubled before it heals;

    Ever by losses the right must gain,

    Every good have its birth of pain;

    The active Virtues blush to find

    The Vices wearing their badge behind,

    And Graces and Charities feel the fire

    Wherein the sins of the age expire;

    The fiend still rends as of old he rent

    The tortured body from which he went.

    But Time tests all. In the over-drift

    And flow of the Nile, with its annual gift,

    Who cares for the Hadji’s relics sunk?

    Who thinks of the drowned-out Coptic monk?

    The tide that loosens the temple’s stones,

    And scatters the sacred ibis-bones,

    Drives away from the valley-land

    That Arab robber, the wandering sand,

    Moistens the fields that know no rain,

    Fringes the desert with belts of grain,

    And bread to the sower brings again.

    So the flood of emotion deep and strong

    Troubled the land as it swept along,

    But left a result of holier lives,

    Tenderer mothers and worthier wives.

    The husband and father whose children fled

    And sad wife wept when his drunken tread

    Frightened peace from his roof-tree’s shade,

    And a rock of offence his hearthstone made,

    In a strength that was not his own began

    To rise from the brute’s to the plane of man.

    Old friends embraced, long held apart

    By evil counsel and pride of heart;

    And penitence saw through misty tears,

    In the bow of hope on its cloud of fears,

    The promise of Heaven’s eternal years,—

    The peace of God for the world’s annoy,—

    Beauty for ashes, and oil of joy!

    Under the church of Federal Street,

    Under the tread of its Sabbath feet,

    Walled about by its basement stones,

    Lie the marvellous preacher’s bones.

    No saintly honors to them are shown,

    No sign nor miracle have they known;

    But he who passes the ancient church

    Stops in the shade of its belfry-porch,

    And ponders the wonderful life of him

    Who lies at rest in that charnel dim.

    Long shall the traveller strain his eye

    From the railroad car, as it plunges by,

    And the vanishing town behind him search

    For the slender spire of the Whitefield Church;

    And feel for one moment the ghosts of trade,

    And fashion, and folly, and pleasure laid,

    By the thought of that life of pure intent,

    That voice of warning yet eloquent,

    Of one on the errands of angels sent.

    And if where he labored the flood of sin

    Like a tide from the harbor-bar sets in,

    And over a life of time and sense

    The church-spires lift their vain defence,

    As if to scatter the bolts of God

    With the points of Calvin’s thunder-rod,—

    Still, as the gem of its civic crown,

    Precious beyond the world’s renown,

    His memory hallows the ancient town!