Lines: Written on receiving an elegant Walking Cane, manufactured from a portion of the wood-work of Pennsylvania Hall, which the fire had spared

Lines: Written on receiving an elegant Walking Cane, manufactured from a portion of the wood-work of Pennsylvania Hall, which the fire had spared

Token of friendship true and tried,

From one whose fiery heart of youth

With mine has beaten side by side,

For Liberty and Truth:

With honest pride the gift I take

And prize it for the giver's sake.

But not alone because it tells

Of generous hand, and heart sincere,

Around that gift of friendship dwells

A memory doubly dear -

Earth's noblest aim - man's holiest thought,

With that memorial frail inwrought!

Pure thoughts and sweet-like flowers unfold

And precious memories round it cling,

Even as the Prophet's rod of old

In beauty blossoming;

And buds of feeling pure and good

Spring from its cold unconscious wood.

Relic of Freedom's shrine - a brand

Plucked from its burning! - let it be

Dear as a jewel from the hand

Of a lost friend to me! -

Flower of a perished garland left

Of life and beauty unbereft!

Oh! if the enthusiast pilgrim bears

A relic from the crumbling stone

On Currascialla's marble stairs,

Or round the Parthenon -

Or olive bough from some wild tree,

Hung over old Theamophylae.

If leaflets from some hero's tomb,

Or moss wreath torn from ruin's hoary, -

Or flowers whose plundered sisters bloom

On fields renowned in story -

Or fragment from the Alhambra's crest,

Or the gray rock by Druids blessed!

If Erin's shamrock greenly growing

Where Freedom led her stalwart kern,

Or Scotia's "rough bur thistle" blowing

On Bruce's Bannockburn -

Or Runnymead's wild English rose,

Or lichen plucked from the Sempach's snows!

If it be true that things like these

To heart and eye bright visions bring,

Shall not far holier memories

To this memorial cling?

Which need no mellowing mist of time

To hide the crimson stains of crime!

Wreck of a temple, unprofaned -

Of courts where Peace with Freedom trod,

Lifting on high with hands unstained

Thanksgiving unto God;

Where Mercy's voice of love was pleading

For human hearts in bondage bleeding.

Where, midst the sound of rushing feet

And curses on the night air flung,

That pleading voice rose calm and sweet

From woman's earnest tongue;

And Riot turned his scowling glance,

Awed, from her tranquil countenance!

That temple now in ruin lies, -

The fire stain on its shattered wall

And open to the changing skies

Its black and roofless hall,

It stands before a nation's sight

A grave-stone over buried Right!

But from that ruin, as of old,

The fire-scorched stones themselves are crying,

And from their ashes white and cold

Its timbers are replying!

A voice which Slavery cannot kill

Speaks from its crumbling arches still.

And even this relic from thy shrine

Oh, holy Freedom, - hath to me

A potent power of voice and sign,

To testify of thee,

And as I grasp it now I feel

A stronger faith - a warmer zeal.

Not all unlike that mystic rod

Of old stretched o'er the Egyptian wave,

Which opened in the strength of God

A pathway for the slave,

It may yet point the bondmen's way

And turn the spoiler from his prey.

Sixth month, 28th, 1839.

J.G. Whittier

3:28, p. 4

1839.09.28

From the Pennsylvania Freeman