On thee, their pampered guest, the planters smile,

Thy church shall praise.

Grave, reverend men shall tell

From Northern pulpits how thy work was blest,

1 There was at the time when this poem was written an Association in Liberty County, Georgia, for the religious instruction of negroes. One of their annual reports contains an address by the Rev. Josiah Spry Law, in which the following passage occurs: 'There is a growing interest in this community in the religious instruction of negroes. There is a conviction that religious instruction promotes the quiet and order of the people, and the pecuniary interest of the owners.' (WHITTIER.)

THE SHOEMAKERS 1

Ho! workers of the old time styled The Gentle Craft of Leather!

1 In his Songs of Labor, though Whittier wrote with most sympathy of the two trades at which he had himself worked, shoemaking (cf. Carpenter's Whittier, pp. 39-41) and farming (see The Huskers,' p. 278), there are lines in others of the Songs which cannot be spared from any selection of his poetry. Such are these from The Lumbermen: '—

Keep who will the city's alleys,
Take the smooth-shorn plain;
Give to us the cedarn valleys,
Rocks and hills of Maine!

Young brothers of the ancient guild,
Stand forth once more together!
Call out again your long array,
In the olden merry manner!
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day,
Fling out your blazoned banner!

Rap, rap! upon the well-worn stone
How falls the polished hammer!
Rap, rap! the measured sound has grown
A quick and merry clamor.

Now shape the sole ! now deftly curl
The glossy vamp around it,

And bless the while the bright-eyed girl
Whose gentle fingers bound it!

For you, along the Spanish main

A hundred keels are ploughing;
For you, the Indian on the plain
His lasso-coil is throwing;
For you, deep glens with hemlock dark
The woodman's fire is lighting;

For you, upon the oak's gray bark,
The woodman's axe is smiting.

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Free hands and hearts are still your pride,

In our North-land, wild and woody,
Let us still have part:
Rugged nurse and mother sturdy,
Hold us to thy heart!

or the beginning of 'The Drovers : ' —

Through heat and cold, and shower and sun,
Still onward cheerly driving!

There 's life alone in duty done,

And rest alone in striving.

See also the beautiful Dedication' of the Songs of Labor, p. 282.

THE PINE TREE1

Beats her Pilgrim pulse no longer? Sits she dumb in her despair?

State's rusted shield,

Give to Northern winds the Pine-Tree on our banner's tattered field.

Sons of men who sat in council with their

Bibles round the board, Answering England's royal missive with a firm, Thus saith the Lord!' Rise again for home and freedom! set the battle in array!

What the fathers did of old time we their

sons must do to-day.

Tell us not of banks and tariffs, cease your paltry pedler cries;

Shall the good State sink her honor that your gambling stocks may rise? Would ye barter man for cotton? That your gains may sum up higher, Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pass our children through the fire?

Is the dollar only real? God and truth and right a dream?

Weighed against your lying ledgers must our manhood kick the beam?

O my God! for that free spirit, which of old in Boston town

Smote the Province House with terror, struck the crest of Andros down! For another strong-voiced Adams in the city's streets to cry,

Up for God and Massachusetts! Set your feet on Mammon's lie!

Perish banks and perish traffic, spin your cotton's latest pound,

But in Heaven's name keep your honor, keep the heart o' the Bay State sound!'

Where's the man for Massachusetts ?

Where's the voice to speak her free? Where's the hand to light up bonfires from

her mountains to the sea?

Written on hearing that the Anti-Slavery Resolves of Stephen C. Phillips had been rejected by the Whig Convention in Faneuil Hall, in 1846. (WHITTIER.)

Whittier sent the poem to Sumner in a letter in which he said I have just read the proceedings of your Whig convention, and the lines enclosed are feeble expression of my feelings. I look upon the rejection of Stephen C. Phillips's resolutions as an evidence that the end and aim of the managers of the convention was to go just far enough to scare the party and no farther. All thanks for the free voices of thyself, Phillips, Allen, and Adams. Notwithstanding the result you have not spoken in vain.' (Quoted in Pickard's Life, vol. i, p. 316.)

she none to do and dare?

O my God! for one right worthy to lift up her rusted shield,

And to plant again the Pine-Tree in her banner's tattered field!

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2 Among the earliest converts to the doctrines of Friends in Scotland was Barclay of Ury, an old and distinguished soldier, who had fought under Gustavus Adolphus, in Germany. As a Quaker, he became the object of persecution and abuse at the hands of the magistrates and the populace. None bore the indignities of the mob with greater patience and nobleness of soul than this once proud gentleman and soldier. of his friends, on an occasion of uncommon rudeness, lamented that he should be treated so harshly in his old age who had been so honored before. 'I find more satisfaction,' said Barclay, as well as honor, in being thus insulted for my religious principles, than when, a few years ago, it was usual for the magistrates, as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet me on the road and conduct me to public entertainment in their hall, and then escort me out again, to gain my favor.' (WHITTIER.)

Close behind him, close beside, Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, Pressed the mob in fury.

Flouted him the drunken churl,
Jeered at him the serving-girl,

Prompt to please her master;
And the begging carlin, late
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate,

Cursed him as he passed her.

Yet, with calm and stately mien,
Up the streets of Aberdeen

Came he slowly riding;
And, to all he saw and heard,
Answering not with bitter word,
Turning not for chiding.

Came a troop with broadswords swinging,
Bits and bridles sharply ringing,

Loose and free and froward;

Quoth the foremost, Ride him down! Push him! prick him! through the town Drive the Quaker coward!'

But from out the thickening crowd Cried a sudden voice and loud:

'Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!'

And the old man at his side

Saw a comrade, battle tried,

Scarred and sunburned darkly,

Who with ready weapon bare,
Fronting to the troopers there,
Cried aloud: 'God save us,
Call ye
coward him who stood
Ankle deep in Lützen's blood,
With the brave Gustavus ?'

'Nay, I do not need thy sword,
Comrade mine,' said Ury's lord
Put it up, I pray thee:
Passive to his holy will,
Trust I in my Master still,

Even though He slay me.

Pledges of thy love and faith, Proved on many a field of death,

Not by me are needed.'

Marvelled much that henchman bold, That his laird, so stout of old,

Now so meekly pleaded.

'Woe's the day!' he sadly said, With a slowly shaking head,

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