Shall be of another form than this!"

It was of another form, indeed;
Built for freight, and yet for speed,

A beautiful and gallant craft;

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,

Pressing down upon sail and mast,

Might not the sharp bows overwhelm;
Broad in the beam, but sloping aft
With graceful curve and slow degrees,
That she might be docile to the helm,
And that the currents of parted seas,
Closing behind, with mighty force,
Might aid and not impede her course.

In the ship-yard stood the Master,
With the model of the vessel,
That should laugh at all disaster,
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!

Covering many a rood of ground,

Lay the timber piled around;

Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,
And scattered here and there, with these,
That knarred and crooked cedar knees;
Brought from regions far away,
From Pascagoula's sunny bay,

And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!
Ah! what a wondrous thing it is

To note how many wheels of toil

One thought, one word, can set in motion!
There's not a ship that sails the ocean,

But every climate, every soil,
Must bring its tribute, great or small,

And help to build the wooden wall!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807-1892)

T

HE most burning question of Whittier's time became the inspiration for his poetry, for he was primarily the poet of slavery. His friendship with the great abolitionist, William Lloyd Garrison, dated from his youth, when Garrison published in his paper a poem of Whittier's sent to him by the poet's sister. Garrison urged Whittier to seek an education to develop his natural talent. Hence it is not remarkable that Whittier should have joined the abolitionists in 1833. This step was one of sacrifice, as it prevented his carrying out his desire to become a politician. In his denunciation of slavery he never said anything bitter against the southerners but was a charitable reformer, who desired to strike the evil while sparing those in its grasp. Of his connection with this movement he said, "I set a higher value on my name as appended to the anti-slavery declaration of 1833 than on the title page of any book."

When Whittier was fourteen years old, his school teacher read some of Burns' poetry to the family gathered about the fireplace. The thought that the Scotch farmer had been able to write such poetry fired the New England farmer boy with the determination to follow in the footsteps of the Scotchman. Whittier's best poems are his songs of labor. He understood the problems and the sufferings of the laboring man and found adequate expression for them. His poetry was all written with a purpose, for he was a reformer, who made his poetry serve his occasion. Consequently he is frequently dull and diffuse. His carelessness and lack of art are evident both in his compositions and faulty rhymes.

An American critic has given his final estimate of Whittier as "The Prophet Bard of America, poet of freedom, humanity, religion; whose works of holy fire aroused the conscience of a guilty nation, and melted the fetters of the slaves."

THE SHIP-BUILDERS

The sky is ruddy in the east,
The earth is gray below,
And, spectral in the river-mist,

The ship's white timbers show.

Then let the sounds of measured stroke

And grating saw begin;

The broad-axe to the gnarled oak,

The mallet to the pin!

Hark! roars the bellows, blast on blast,

The sooty smithy jars,

And fire-sparks, rising far and fast,

Are fading with the stars.
All day for us the smith shall stand
Beside that flashing forge;

All day for us his heavy hand
The groaning anvil scourge.

From far-off hills, the panting team
For us is toiling near;

For us the raftsmen down the stream

Their island barges steer.
Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke
In forests old and still;

For us the century-circled oak
Falls crashing down his hill.

Up! up! in nobler toil than ours
No craftsmen bear a part:
We make of Nature's giant powers
The slaves of human Art.

Lay rib to rib and beam to beam,

And drive the treenails free;

Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam
Shall tempt the searching sea!

Where'er the keel of our good ship

The sea's rough field shall plough;
Where'er her tossing spars shall drip
With salt-spray caught below;
That ship must heed her master's beck,
Her helm obey his hand,

And seamen tread her reeling deck
As if they trod the land.

Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak
Of Northern ice may peel;
The sunken rock and coral peak
May grate along her keel;
And know we well the painted shell
We give to wind and wave,
Must float, the sailor's citadel,
Or sink, the sailor's grave!

Ho! strike away the bars and blocks,
And set the good ship free!
Why lingers on these dusty rocks

The young bride of the sea?

Look! how she moves adown the grooves,

In graceful beauty now!

How lowly on the breast she loves

Sinks down her virgin prow!

God bless her! wheresoe'er the breeze

Her snowy wing shall fan,
Aside the frozen Hebrides,

Or sultry Hindostan!

Where'er, in mart or on the main,
With peaceful flag unfurled,
She helps to wind the silken chain
Of commerce round the world!

Speed on the ship! But let her bear
No merchandise of sin,

No groaning cargo of despair
Her roomy hold within;

No Lethean drug for Eastern lands,
Nor poison-draught for ours;
But honest fruits of toiling hands
And Nature's sun and showers.

Be hers the Prairie's golden grain,
The Desert's golden sand,
The clustered fruits of sunny Spain,

The spice of Morning-land!

Her pathway on the open main

May blessings follow free,
And glad hearts welcome back again

Her white sails from the sea!

THE PROBLEM

I

Not without envy Wealth at times must look
On their brown strength who wield the reaping-hook
And scythe, or at the forge-fire shape the plough