’Twas but the ruin of the bad,—­
    The wasting of the wrong and ill;
  Whate’er of good the old time had
          Was living still.

  Calm grew the brows of him I feared,
    The frown which awed me passed away,
  And left behind a smile which cheered
          Like breaking day.

  The grain grew green on battle-plains,
    O’er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow;
  The slave stood forging from his chains
          The spade and plough.

  Where frowned the fort, pavilions gay
    And cottage windows, flower-entwined,
  Looked out upon the peaceful bay
          And hills behind.

  Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red. 
    The lights on brimming crystal fell,
  Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head
          And mossy well.

  Through prison-walls, like Heaven-sent hope,
    Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed,
  And with the idle gallows-rope
          The young child played.

  Where the doomed victim in his cell
    Had counted o’er the weary hours,
  Glad school-girls, answering to the bell,
          Came crowned with flowers.

  Grown wiser for the lesson given,
    I fear no longer, for I know
  That where the share is deepest driven
          The best fruits grow.

  The outworn rite, the old abuse,
    The pious fraud transparent grown,
  The good held captive in the use
          Of wrong alone,—­

  These wait their doom, from that great law
    Which makes the past time serve to-day;
  And fresher life the world shall draw
          From their decay.

  O backward-looking son of time! 
    The new is old, the old is new,
  The cycle of a change sublime
          Still sweeping through.

  So wisely taught the Indian seer;
    Destroying Seva, forming Brahm,
  Who wake by turn Earth’s love and fear,
          Are one, the same.

  Idly as thou, in that old day
    Thou mournest, did thy sire repine;
  So, in his time, thy child grown gray
          Shall sigh for thine.

  But life shall on and upward go;
    The eternal step of Progress beats
  To that great anthem, calm and slow,
          Which God repeats.

  Take heart!—­the Waster builds again,—­
    A charmed life old Goodness hath;
  The tares may perish,—­but the grain
          Is not for death.

  God works in all things; all obey
    His first propulsion from the night: 
  Wake thou and watch!—­the world is gray
          With morning light!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

* * * * *

FREEDOM OF THE MIND.

WRITTEN WHILE IN PRISON FOR DENOUNCING THE DOMESTIC SLAVE-TRADE.