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The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 6. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Old portraits and modern Sketches (search)
captive a fitting reward, And never may fortune the fetters remove Of a heart that is thine in the bondage of love! In his Dream, a fragment of some length, Placido dwells in a touching manner upon the scenes of his early years. It is addressed to his brother Florence, who was a slave near Matanzas, while the author was in the same condition at Havana. There is a plaintive and melancholy sweetness in these lines, a natural pathos, which finds its way to the heart:– Thou knowest, dear Florence, my sufferings of old, The struggles maintained with oppression for years; We shared them together, and each was consoled With the love which was nurtured by sorrow and tears. But now far apart, the sad pleasure is gone, We mingle our sighs and our sorrows no more; The course is a new one which each has to run, And dreary for each is the pathway before. But in slumber our spirits at least shall commune, We will meet as of old in the visions of sleep, In dreams which call back early days,
The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 6. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Personal Sketches and tributes (search)
p green the memory of such a man is at once a privilege and a duty. That stainless life of seventy years is a priceless legacy. His hands were pure. The shadow of suspicion never fell on him. If he erred in his opinions (and that he did so he had the Christian grace and courage to own), no selfish interest weighed in the scale of his judgment against truth. As our thoughts follow him to his last resting-place, we are sadly reminded of his own touching lines, written many years ago at Florence. The name he has left behind is none the less pure that instead of being humble, as he then anticipated, it is on the lips of grateful millions, and written ineffaceable on the record of his country's trial and triumph:— Yet not for me when I shall fall asleep Shall Santa Croce's lamps their vigils keep. Beyond the main in Auburn's quiet shade, With those I loved and love my couch be made; Spring's pendant branches o'er the hillock wave, And morning's dewdrops glisten on my grave, Whil