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The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Personal Poems (search)
n his spear! “ Then I said, my own heart throbbing To the time her proud pulse beat, “Life hath its regal natures yet, True, tender, brave, and sweet! Smile not, fair unbeliever! One man, at least, I know, Who might wear the crest of Bayard Or Sidney's plume of snow. Once, when over purple mountains Died away the Grecian sun, And the far Cyllenian ranges Paled and darkened, one by one,— Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder, Cleaving all the quiet sky, And against his sharp steel lightnings Stoin his place For the last battle of the world, The Armageddon of the race. Through him we hoped to speak the word Which wins the freedom of a land; And lift, for human right, the sword Which dropped from Hampden's dying hand. For he had sat at Sidney's feet, And walked with Pym and Vane apart; And, through the centuries, felt the beat Of Freedom's march in Cromwell's heart. He knew the paths the worthies held, Where England's best and wisest trod; And, lingering, drank the springs that welle<