John Greenleaf Whittier
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John Greenleaf Whittier (Haverhill, Massachusetts, December 17, 1807 - September 7, 1892 in Hampton Falls, New Hampshire) was an American Quaker poet, and an advocate of the abolition of slavery in the United States.
Whittier was the editor of a number of newspapers in Boston and Haverhill, as well as the New England Weekly Review in Hartford, Connecticut, which was the most influential Whig journal in New England.
Whittier's best-known volumes of poetry include Legends of New England (1831) and Snow-Bound (1866); the latter, a narrative poem dedicated to his family home, secured his reputation, and indeed his income. He also published one novel, Leaves from Margaret Smith's Journal (1849). His poem "Maud Muller" featured the famous line "For all sad words of tongue and pen/The saddest are these, 'It might have been.'" Whittier also wrote a poem about little Eva, a tragic character in Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin (Jackson 231). His poem "Ichabod" was a lament for Daniel Webster's decision to support of the Compromise of 1850 and Fugitive Slave Act, favoring preserving the Union via compromise over fighting for abolition. He was one of the the five members of the group known as the Fireside Poets.
Highly regarded in his lifetime and for some time after (several New England States had holidays in his honour), he is now largely forgotten, except by those who note that a number of his poems were turned into hymns, some of which remain exceedingly popular. Though clearly Victorian in style, and capable of being seen as sentimental, these hymns exhibit both a poetic imagination and a universalism of spirit that mark them out from the rut of nineteenth century hymnody. The best known is probably Dear Lord and Father of mankind, but Whittier's Quaker thought is better illustrated by the hymn that begins,
O Brother Man, fold to thy heart thy brother:
Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there;
To worship rightly is to love each other,
Each smile a hymn, each kindly word a prayer.
Whittier is buried in Amesbury, Massachusetts. His birthplace, the John Greenleaf Whittier Homestead in Haverhill, Massachusetts, is now a public museum, as is the John Greenleaf Whittier Home in Amesbury, his residence for 56 years.
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MAUD MULLER
by: John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)
AUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadows sweet with hay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast--
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
And listened, while a pleasant surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away,
Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me!
That I the Judge's bride might be!
"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.
"My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.
"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.
"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door."
The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still.
"A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.
"And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.
"Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay:
"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
"But low of cattle, and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words."
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go:
And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead;
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
"Ah, that I were free again!
"Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.
But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.
And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,
In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,
And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;
The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned;
And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been."
Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!
God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;
And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!
"Maud Muller" is reprinted from One Hundred Choice Selections. Ed. Phineas Garrett. Philadelphia: Penn Publishing Co., 1897.
Ossie Davis (1917-2005)
