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

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[145] We talked; and, turning from the sore unrest
     Of an all-baffling quest,
We thought of holy lives that from us passed
     Hopeful unto the last,

As if they saw beyond the river of death,
     Like Him of Nazareth,
The many mansions of the Eternal days
     Lift up their gates of praise.

And, hushed to silence by a reverent awe,
     Methought, O friend, I saw
In thy true life of word, and work, and thought
     The proof of all we sought.

Did we not witness in the life of thee
     Immortal prophecy?
And feel, when with thee, that thy footsteps trod
     An everlasting road?

Not for brief days thy generous sympathies,
     Thy scorn of selfish ease;
Not for the poor prize of an earthly goal
     Thy strong uplift of soul.

Than thine was never turned a fonder heart
     To nature and to art
In fair-formed Hellas in her golden prime,
     Thy Philothea's time.

Yet, loving beauty, thou couldst pass it by,
     And for the poor deny
Thyself, and see thy fresh, sweet flower of fame
     Wither in blight and blame.