Lydia H. Sigourney

She sang alone, ere womanhood had known
The gift of song which fills the air to-day
Tender and sweet, a music all her own
May fitly linger where she knelt to pray

John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier was an American Quaker poet and advocate of the abolition of slavery in the United States. He was born on December 17, 1807, in Haverhill, Massachusetts, and died on September 7, 1892, in Hampton Falls, New Hampshire. Whittier is remembered particularly for his anti-slavery writings as well as his association with the Fireside Poets, a group of New England writers whose work became notable in American literature in the 19th century.

John Greenleaf Whittier

The Disenthralled

John Greenleaf Whittier, Simple Poetry

The Exiles. 1660

John Greenleaf Whittier, Simple Poetry

William Forster

John Greenleaf Whittier, Simple Poetry

Laying Up Treasure

John Greenleaf Whittier, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

To Lydia Maria Child

On reading her poem in "The Standard.


The sweet spring day is glad with music,
But through it sounds a sadder strain;
The worthiest of our narrowing circle
Sings Loring's dirges o'er again.

O woman greatly loved! I join thee
In tender memories of our friend;
With thee across the awful spaces
The greeting of a soul I send!

What cheer hath he? How is it with him?
Where lingers he this weary while?
Over what pleasant fields of Heaven
Dawns the sweet sunrise of his smile?

Does he not know our feet are treading
The earth hard down on Slavery's grave?
That, in our crowning exultations,
We miss the charm his presence gave?

Why on this spring air comes no whisper
From him to tell us all is well?
Why to our flow...

John Greenleaf Whittier

The Singer

Years since (but names to me before),
Two sisters sought at eve my door;
Two song-birds wandering from their nest,
A gray old farm-house in the West.

How fresh of life the younger one,
Half smiles, half tears, like rain in sun!
Her gravest mood could scarce displace
The dimples of her nut-brown face.

Wit sparkled on her lips not less
For quick and tremulous tenderness;
And, following close her merriest glance,
Dreamed through her eyes the heart's romance.

Timid and still, the elder had
Even then a smile too sweetly sad;
The crown of pain that all must wear
Too early pressed her midnight hair.

Yet ere the summer eve grew long,
Her modest lips were sweet with song;
A memory haunted all her words
Of clover-fields and singing...

John Greenleaf Whittier

To Jean Ingelow

When youth was high, and life was new
And days sped musical and fleet,
She stood amid the morning dew,
And sang her earliest measures sweet, -
Sang as the lark sings, speeding fair
To touch and taste the purer air,
To gain a nearer view of Heaven;
'Twas then she sang "The Songs of Seven."

Now, farther on in womanhood,
With trainèd voice and ripened art,
She gently stands where once she stood,
And sings from out her deeper heart.
Sing on, dear Singer! sing again;
And we will listen to the strain,
Till soaring earth greets bending Heaven,
And seven-fold songs grow seventy-seven.

Susan Coolidge

In Memoriam. - Mrs. Georgiana Ives Comstock,

Died at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22.


I saw a brilliant bridal.
                    All that cheers
And charms the leaping heart of youth was there;
And she, the central object of the group,
The cherished song-bird of her father's house,
Array'd in beauty, was the loved of all.
Would I could tell you what a world of flowers
Were concentrated there--how they o'erflow'd
In wreaths and clusters--how they climb'd and swept
From vase to ceiling, with their gay festoons
Whispering each other in their mystic lore
Of fragrance, and consulting how to swell,
As best they might, the tide of happiness.

A few brief moons departed and I sought
The same abode. There was a gather'd throng
Beyond the threshold stone. A few white flowers
Crept o'er...

Lydia Howard Sigourney

In Memoriam. - Madam Whiting,

Widow of the late SPENCER WHITING, Esq., died at Hartford, April, 1859, aged 88.


Life's work well done, how beautiful to rest.
Aye, lift your little ones to see her face,
So calmly smiling in its coffin-bed!
There is no wrinkle there,--no rigid gloom
To make them turn their tender glance away;
And when they say their simple prayer at night
With folded hands,--instruct their innocent lips
Meekly to say: "Our Father! may we live,
And die like her."
                    Her more than fourscore years
Chill'd not in her the genial flow of thought
Or energy of deed. The earnest power
To advance home-happiness, the kindly warmth
Of social intercourse, the sweet response
Of filial love, rejoicing in her joy,
And reverencing her saintly piety,
Were with...

Lydia Howard Sigourney

In Memoriam. - Miss Anna M. Seymour,

Died at Hartford, August 24th, 1860.


The beauteous brow, the form of grace,
    With all their youthful charms,
The hand that woke the pencil's power,
And bore to penury's lowly bower,
    The never-wearied alms,

The sweet, sweet voice that duly cheer'd
    A grateful Sabbath train,
The uprais'd eye that taught them more
Of Heaven, than all their student lore,
    Must ne'er return again.

She took her flight as from the cage
    Enfranchised warblers glide,
Though friends were dear, and life was fair,
She saw her Saviour standing there,
    Beyond rough Jordan's tide.

Praise, praise to Him, whose faithful hand
    Prepared her glorious place,
For us is loss,--for her release,
The robe of rest, the home of peace,--

Lydia Howard Sigourney