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

My friend
Was of a gentle nature, and his heart
Gushed like a river-fountain of the hills,
Ceaseless and lavish, at a kindly smile,
A word of welcome, or a tone of love.
Freely his letters to his friends disclosed
His yearnings for the quiet haunts of home,
For love and its companionship, and all
The blessings left behind him; yet above
Its sorrows and its clouds his spirit rose,
Tearful and yet triumphant, taking hold
Of the eternal promises of God,
And steadfast in its faith.

Here are some lines
Penned in his lonely mission-house and sent
To a dear friend at home who even now
Lingers above them with a mournful joy,
Holding them well-nigh sacred as a leaf
Plucked from the record of a breaking heart.

Evening in Burmah.

A night of wonder! piled afar
     With ebon feet and crests of snow,
Like Himalaya's peaks, which bar
     The sunset and the sunset's star
From half the shadowed vale below,
     Volume and vast the dense clouds lie,
And over them, and down the sky,
     Paled in the moon, the lightnings go.

And what a strength of light and shade
     Is chequering all the earth below!
And, through the jungle's verdant braid,
     Of tangled vine and wild reed made,
What blossoms in the moonlight glow I
     The Indian rose's loveliness,
The ceiba with its crimson dress,
     The twining myrtle dropped with snow.

And flitting in the fragrant air,
     Or nestling in the shadowy trees,
A thousand bright-hued birds are there-
     Strange plumage, quivering wild and rare,
With every faintly breathing breeze;
     And, wet with dew from roses shed,