Classic Poem

( TO J. G. WITTIER, FOR HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

S NOW-BOUND for earth, but summer-souled for thee,
Thy natal morning shines:
Hail, Friend and Poet. Give thy hand to me,
And let me read its lines!

For skilled in Fancy's palmistry am I,
When years have set their crown;
When Life gives light to read its secrets by,
And deed explains renown.

So, looking backward from thy seventieth year
On service grand and free,
The pictures of thy spirit's Past are clear,
And each interprets thee.

I see thee, first, on hills our Aryan sires
In Time's lost morning knew,
Kindling, as priest, the lonely altar-fires
That from Earth's darkness grew.

Then, wise with secrets of Chaldaean lore,
In high Akkadian fane;
Or pacing slow by Egypt's river-shore,
In Thothmes' glorious reign.

I hear thee, wroth with all iniquities
That Judah's kings betrayed,
Preach from Ain-Jidi's rock thy God's decrees,
Or Mamre's terebinth shade.

And, ah! — most piteous vision of the Past,
Drawn by thy being's law,
I see thee, martyr, in the arena cast,
Beneath the lion's paw.

Yet, afterwards, how rang thy sword upon
The Paynim helm and shield!
How shone with Godfrey, and at Askalon,
Thy white plume o'er the field!

Strange contradiction! — where the sand-waves spread
The boundless desert sea,
The Bedouin spearmen found their destined head,
Their dark-eyed chief — in thee!

And thou wert friar in Cluny's saintly cell,
And Skald by Norway's foam,
Ere fate of Poet fixed thy soul, to dwell
In this New England home.

Here art thou Poet, — more than warrior, priest;
And here thy quiet years
Yield more to us than sacrifice or feast,
Or clash of swords or spears.

The faith that lifts, the courage that sustains,
These thou wert sent to teach:
Hot blood of battle, beating in thy veins,
Is turned to gentle speech.

Not less, but more, than others hast thou striven;
Thy victories remain:
The scars of ancient hate, long since forgiven,
Have lost their power to pain.

Apostle pure of Freedom and of Right,
Thou had'st thy one reward:
Thy prayers were heard, and flashed upon thy sight
The Coming of the Lord!

Now, sheathed in myrtle of thy tender songs,
Slumbers the blade of truth;
But Age's wisdom, crowning thee, prolongs
The eager hope of Youth!

Another line upon thy hand I trace,
All destinies above:
Men know thee most as one that loves his race,
And bless thee with their love!