Poems of Nature (Whittier)/June on the Merrimac
For other versions of this work, see June on the Merrimac.
JUNE ON THE MERRIMAC.
O dwellers in the stately towns,What come ye out to see?This common earth, this common sky,This water flowing free?
As gayly as these kalmia flowersYour dooryard blossoms spring;As sweetly as these wild-wood birdsYour cagèd minstrels sing.
You find but common bloom and green,The rippling river's rune,The beauty which is everywhereBeneath the skies of June;
The Hawkswood oaks, the storm-torn plumesOf old pine-forest kings,Beneath whose century-woven shadeDeer Island's mistress sings.
And here are pictured Artichoke,And Curson's bowery mill;And Pleasant Valley smiles betweenThe river and the hill.
You know full well these banks of bloom,The upland's wavy line,And how the sunshine tips with fireThe needles of the pine.
Yet, like some old remembered psalm,Or sweet, familiar face,Not less because of commonnessYou love the day and place.
And not in vain in this soft airShall hard-strung nerves relax,Not all in vain the o'erworn brainForego its daily tax.
The lust of power, the greed of gainHave all the year their own;The haunting demons well may letOur one bright day alone.
Unheeded let the newsboy call,Aside the ledger lay;The world will keep its treadmill stepThough we fall out to-day.
The truants of life's weary school,Without excuse from thrift,We change for once the gains of toilFor God's unpurchased gift.
From ceilèd rooms, from silent books,From crowded car and town,Dear Mother Earth, upon thy lap,We lay our tired heads down.
Cool, summer wind, our heated brows;Blue river, through the greenOf clustering pines, refresh the eyesWhich all too much have seen.
For us these pleasant woodland waysAre thronged with memories old;Have felt the grasp of friendly hands,And heard love's story told.
A sacred presence overbroodsThe earth whereon we meet;These winding forest-paths are trodBy more than mortal feet:
Old friends called from us by the voiceWhich they alone could hear,From mystery to mystery,From life to life, draw near.
More closely for the sake of themEach other's hands we press;Our voices take from them a toneOf deeper tenderness.
Our joy is theirs, their trust is ours,Alike below, above,Or here or there, about us foldThe arms of one great love!
We ask to-day no countersign,No party names we own;Unlabelled, individual,We bring ourselves alone.
What cares the unconventioned woodFor passwords of the town?The sound of fashion's shibbolethThe laughing waters drown.
Here cant forgets his dreary tone,And care his face forlorn;The liberal air and sunshine laughThe bigot's zeal to scorn.
From manhood's weary shoulder fallsHis load of selfish cares;And woman takes her rights, as flowersAnd brooks and birds take theirs.
The license of the happy woods,The brook's release are ours;The freedom of the unshamed windAmong the glad-eyed flowers.
Yet here no evil thought finds place,Nor foot profane comes in;Our grove, like that of Samothrace,Is set apart from sin.
We walk on holy ground; aboveA sky more holy smiles;The chant of the BeatitudesSwells down these leafy aisles.
Thanks to the gracious ProvidenceThat brings us here once more;For memories of the good behind,And hopes of good before!
And if, unknown to us, sweet daysOf June like this must come,Unseen of us, these laurels clotheThe river-banks with bloom;
And these green paths must soon be trodBy other feet than ours,Full long may annual pilgrims comeTo keep the Feast of Flowers;
The matron be a girl once more,The bearded man a boy,And we, in heaven's eternal June,Be glad for earthly joy!