Once the dwellers of thy home Blessed the path thy race had trod, Kneeling in the temple dome To a reptile god; Where the shrine of Isis shone Through the veil before its throne, And the priest with fixéd eyes Watched his human sacrifice; And the priestess knelt in prayer, Like some dream of beauty there.
Thou, unhonored and unknown, Wand'rer o'er the mighty sea! None for thee have reverence shown-- None have worshipped thee! Here in vulgar Yankee land, Thou hast passed from hand to hand, And in Frinksborough found a home, Where no change can ever come! What thy closing hours befell None may ask, and none may tell.
Who hath mourned above thy grave? None--except thy ancient nurse. Well she may--thy being gave Coppers to her purse! Who hath questioned her of thee? None, alas! save maidens three, Here to view thee while in being, Yankee curious, paid for seeing, And would gratis view once more That for which they paid before.
Yet thy quiet rest may be Envied by the human kind, Who are showing off like thee, To the careless mind, Gifts which torture while they flow, Thoughts which madden while they glow, Pouring out the heart's deep wealth, Proffering quiet, ease, and health, For the fame which comes to them Blended with their requiem!
The following poem, which I have never seen in print, I find in a manuscript collection of Whittier's early poems, in the possession of his cousin, Ann Wendell, of Philadelphia. It is a political curiosity, being a reminiscence of the excitement caused by the mystery of the disappearance of William Morgan, in the vicinity of Niagara Falls, in 1826. It was written in 1830, three years before Whittier became especially active in the anti-slavery cause. He was then working in the interest of Henry Clay as against Jackson, and the Whigs had adopted some of the watchwords of the Anti-Masonic party:--
Wild torrent of the lakes! fling out Thy mighty wave to breeze and sun, And let the rainbow curve above The foldings of thy clouds of dun. Uplift thy earthquake voice, and pour Its thunder to the reeling shore, Till caverned cliff and hanging wood Roll back the echo of thy flood, For there is one who slumbers now Beneath thy bow-encircled brow, Whose spirit hath a voice and sign More strong, more terrible than thine.