The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier

THE CONQUEST OF FINLAND.

Of England's battle-line.

Still upward turned, with anxious strain, | A bark is sailing in the track
Their leader's sleepless eye,
Where splinters of the mountain chain
Stood black against the sky.

The night waned slow at last, a glow,
A gleam of sudden fire,
Shot up behind the walls of snow,
And tipped each icy spire.

They set their faces to the blast,

They trod the eternal snow,

No wares hath she to barter
For Bothnia's fish and grain;
She saileth not for pleasure,
She saileth not for gain.

But still by isle or mainland

She drops her anchor down,
Where'er the British cannon

Rained fire on tower and town.

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And faint, worn, bleeding, hailed at last "God bless her," said the coast-guard, — The promised land below.

Behind, they saw the snow-cloud tossed
By many an icy horn;
Before, warm valleys, wood-embossed,
And green with vines and corn.

They left the Winter at their backs
To flap his baffled wing,
And downward, with the cataracts,
Leaped to the lap of Spring.

Strong leader of that mountain band,
Another task remains,

To break from Slavery's desert land
A path to Freedom's plains.

The winds are wild, the way is drear,
Yet, flashing through the night,
Lo! icy ridge and rocky spear
Blaze out in morning light!

Rise up, FREMONT ! and go before;
The Hour must have its Man;
Put on the hunting-shirt once more,
And lead in Freedom's van !

"God bless the ship, I say.
The holy angels trim the sails
That speed her on her way!

"Where'er she drops her anchor,
The peasant's heart is glad;
Where'er she spreads her parting sail,
The peasant's heart is sad.

"Each wasted town and hamlet

She visits to restore;
To roof the shattered cabin,

And feed the starving poor.

"The sunken boats of fishers,

The foraged beeves and grain,
The spoil of flake and storehouse,
The good ship brings again.
"And so to Finland's sorrow
The sweet amend is made,
As if the healing hand of Christ
Upon her wounds were laid!

Then said the gray old Amtman,
"The will of God be done!
The battle lost by England's hate,
By England's love is won!

THE CONQUEST OF FINLAND.65 "We braved the iron tempest

ACROSS the frozen marshes

The winds of autumn blow,
And the fen-lands of the Wetter
Are white with early snow.
But where the low, gray headlands
Look o'er the Baltic brine,

That thundered on our shore;
But when did kindness fail to find
The key to Finland's door?

"No more from Aland's ramparts

Shall warning signal come,
Nor startled Sweaborg hear again
The roll of midnight drum.

"I clothe your hands with power to lift Evermore numbered with the truly free

The curse from off your soil;

Who find thy service perfect liberty!

I fain would thank Thee that my mor- | To see the dance of woodland shadows,

Methinks, my ample beaver's shade May serve my turn as well.

Let Love's and Friendship's tender debt
Be paid by those I love in life.
Why should the unborn critic whet
For me his scalping-knife?

Why should the stranger peer and pry
One's vacant house of life about,
And drag for curious ear and eye
His faults and follies out? -

Why stuff, for fools to gaze upon,
With chaff of words, the garb he wore,
As corn-husks when the ear is gone
Are rustled all the more?

Let kindly Silence close again,
The picture vanish from the eye,
And on the dim and misty main
Let the small ripple die.

Yet not the less I own your claim
To grateful thanks, dear friends of
mine.

Hang, if it please you so, my name
Upon your household line.

Let Fame from brazen lips blow wide
Her chosen names, I envy none:
A mother's love, a father's pride,
Shall keep alive my own!

Still shall that name as now recall
The young leaf wet with morning
dew,

The glory where the sunbeams fall

The breezy woodlands through.

That name shall be a household word,
A spell to waken smile or sigh;
In many an evening prayer be heard
And cradle lullaby.

And thou, dear child, in riper days

When asked the reason of thy name, Shalt answer : "One 't were vain to praise

Or censure bore the same.

"In him the grave and playful mixed, And wisdom held with folly truce, And Nature compromised betwixt Good fellow and recluse.

"He loved his friends, forgave his foes; And, if his words were harsh at times, He spared his fellow-men, his blows

Fell only on their crimes.

"He loved the good and wise, but found
His human heart to all akin
Who met him on the common ground
Of suffering and of sin.

"Whate'er his neighbors might endure Of pain or grief his own became ; For all the ills he could not cure

He held himself to blame.

"His good was mainly an intent,

His evil not of forethought done; The work he wrought was rarely meant Or finished as begun.

"Ill served his tides of feeling strong To turn the common mills of use; And, over restless wings of song,

His birthright garb hung loose!

"His eye was beauty's powerless slave, And his the ear which discord pains: Few guessed beneath his aspect grave What passions strove in chains.

"He had his share of care and pain,

No holiday was life to him; Still in the heirloom cup we drain

The bitter drop will swim.

"Yet Heaven was kind, and here a bird

And there a flower beguiled his way; And, cool, in summer noons, he heard The fountains plash and play.

"On all his sad or restless moods

The patient peace of Nature stole ; The quiet of the fields and woods Sank deep into his soul.

"He worshipped as his fathers did,
And kept the faith of childish days,
And, howsoe'er he strayed or slid,
He loved the good old ways.

"The simple tastes, the kindly traits,

The tranquil air, and gentle speech,

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