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For his thought, that never stops,
Follows the water-drops

Down to the graves of the dead,

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head

Of lakes and rivers underground;

And sees them, when the rain is done,
On the bridge of colors seven
Climbing up once more to heaven,
Opposite the setting sun.

Thus the Seer,

With vision clear,

Sees forms appear and disappear,

In the perpetual round of strange

Mysterious change,

From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; Till glimpses more sublime

Of things, unseen before,

Unto his wondering eyes reveal

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning for evermore

In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

SONNET: THE POETS.

O ye dead poets, who are living still
Immortal in your verse, though life be fled,
And ye, O living poets, who are dead
Though ye are living, if neglect can kill,—
Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill,
With drops of anguish falling fast and red
From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head,
Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil?
Yes; for the gift and ministry of song
Have something in them so divinely sweet,
It can assuage the bitterness of wrong;
Not in the clamor of the crowded street,
Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,
But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

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PHANTOMS.

All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.
We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,

SONNET: NATURE.

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Not wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,

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to his own exertions. He was not nineteen when his first published poem appeared in a Newburyport paper, edited by William Lloyd Garrison. The first complete collection of his poems was published in 1850. Other volumes appeared later: "Songs of Labor," in 1851; "The Chapel of the Hermits," in 1852; "The Panora ma," in 1856; "Home Ballads," in 1860; "In War Time," in 1863; "Snow - Bound," in 1865; "The Tent on the Beach," in 1867; "Among the Hills," in 1868; "The Pennsylvania Pilgrim," in 1873.

Whittier was at different periods of his life an editor, and he has put forth some four or five volumes in prose. But it is as a poet, and one indigenous to the soil of America, and true to its traditions and associations, that he will be known to posterity. Even his moral and didactic verse is distinguished by a lyrical grace and freedom that overcomes their gravity. His "Maud Muller" (1855) is one of the choicest of idyllic poems, and savors thoroughly of the native soil. In his religious utterances he shows an earnest and devotional spirit, hopeful in its views of the destiny of the race, but too broad for circumscription in any sectarian creed. As a ballad-writer he is eminently successful-simple, graceful, interesting, and never prolix. His "Witch of Wenham" may be in

Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lyun! stanced as a singularly beautiful specimen in this depart

Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward

Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn!

The distant light-house hears, and with his flaming signal,

Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn!

And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous

surges,

And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn!

Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations,

Ye summon up the spectral moou, O Bells of Lynn!

And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor,

Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn!

ment of verse. Among the tributes sent to him on his seventieth birthday was the following little poem by Lydia Maria (Francis) Child, born in Medford, Mass., in 1802, and the author of "The Progress of Religious Ideas," and other approved works, as well as of some admirable poems for the young:

"I thank thee, friend, for words of cheer,
That made the path of duty clear,
When thou and I were young, and strong
To wrestle with a mighty wrong.

And now, when lengthening shadows come,
And this world's work is nearly done,

I thank thee for thy genial ray,

That prophesies a brighter day,

When we can work, with strength renewed,

In clearer light, for surer good.

God bless thee, friend, and give thee peace,
Till thy fervent spirit finds release!

And may we meet in worlds afar, My Morning and my Evening Star!" Whittier has resided the greater part of his life at Amesbury, Mass. He has never been married, and his life has been almost wholly devoted to literary pursuits. In 1877 he edited "Songs of Three Centuries," a tasteful collection of poetry, British and American.

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