John Greenleaf Whittier

The Beauty which old Greece or Rome Sung, painted, wrought, lies close at home.

Each crisis brings its word and deed.

God blesses still the generous thought, And still the fitting word He speeds, And Truth, at His requiring taught, He quickens into deeds.

Beauty seen is never lost.

The Night is Mother of the Day, The Winter of the Spring, And ever upon old Decay The greenest mosses cling.

Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young.

Better heresy of doctrine than heresy of heart.

We lack but open eye and ear To find the Orient's marvels here; The still small voice in autumn's hush, Yon maple wood the burning bush.

Yet sometimes glimpses on my sight, Through present wrong the eternal right; And, step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man;

Again the shadow moveth o'er The dial-plate of time.

I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.

The hope of all who suffer, The dread of all who wrong.

Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good.

Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, So "Bonnie Doon" but tarry; Blot out the epic’s stately rhyme, But spare his "Highland Mary!"

Making their lives a prayer.

When faith is lost, when honor dies The man is dead!

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore; The glory from his gray hairs gone For evermore!

Press bravely onward! — not in vain Your generous trust in human kind; The good which bloodshed could not gain Your peaceful zeal shall find.

O, brother man! fold to thy heart thy brother; where pity dwells, the peace of God is there.

What is good looking, as Horace Smith remarks, but looking good? Be good, be womanly, be gentle,—generous in your sympathies, heedful of the well-being of all around you; and, my word for it, you will not lack kind words of admiration.

The windows of my soul I throw Wide open to the sun.

Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said.