The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[374]
     Yet, in their fixed, unchanging gaze,
Something, which spoke of early days,—
     A sadness in their quiet glare,
As if love's smile were frozen there,—
     Came o'er me with an icy thrill;
O God! I feel its presence still!”

The Jesuit makes the holy sign,—
     ‘How passed the vision, daughter mine?’

“All dimly in the wan moonshine,
     As a wreath of mist will twist and twine,
And scatter, and melt into the light;
     So scattering, melting on my sight,
The pale, cold vision passed;
     But those sad eyes were fixed on mine
Mournfully to the last.”

“God help thee, daughter, tell me why
     That spirit passed before thine eye!”

“Father, I know not, save it be
     That deeds of mine have summoned her
From the unbreathing sepulchre,
     To leave her last rebuke with me.
Ah, woe for me! my mother died
     Just at the moment when I stood
Close on the verge of womanhood,
     A child in everything beside;
And when my wild heart needed most
     Her gentle counsels, they were lost.

“My father lived a stormy life,
     Of frequent change and daily strife;
And—God forgive him! left his child
     To feel, like him, a freedom wild;
To love the red man's dwelling-place,
     The birch boat on his shaded floods,
The wild excitement of the chase
     Sweeping the ancient woods,
The camp-fire, blazing on the shore
     Of the still lakes, the clear stream where
The idle fisher sets his weir,
     Or angles in the shade, far more
Than that restraining awe I felt
     Beneath my gentle mother's care,
When nightly at her knee I knelt,
     With childhood's simple prayer.

     There came a change. The wild, glad mood
Of unchecked freedom passed.
     Amid the ancient solitude
Of unshorn grass and waving wood