except thy ancient nurse.
Well she may--thy being gave
Coppers to her purse!
Who hath questioned her of thee?
None, alas! save maidens three,
Here to view thee while in being,
Yankee curious, paid for seeing,
And would gratis view once more
That for which they paid before.

Yet thy quiet rest may be
Envied by the human kind,
Who are showing off like thee,
To the careless mind,
Gifts which torture while they flow,
Thoughts which madden while they glow,
Pouring out the heart's deep wealth,
Proffering quiet, ease, and health,
For the fame which comes to them
Blended with their requiem!

The following poem, which I have never seen in print, I find in a
manuscript collection of Whittier's early poems, in the possession of
his cousin, Ann Wendell, of Philadelphia. It is a political curiosity,
being a reminiscence of the excitement caused by the mystery of the
disappearance of William Morgan, in the vicinity of Niagara Falls, in
1826. It was written in 1830, three years before Whittier became
especially active in the anti-slavery cause. He was then working in the
interest of Henry Clay as against Jackson, and the Whigs had adopted
some of the watchwords of the Anti-Masonic party:--

THE GRAVE OF MORGAN

Wild torrent of the lakes! fling out
Thy mighty wave to breeze and sun,
And let the rainbow curve above
The foldings of thy clouds of dun.
Uplift thy earthquake voice, and pour
Its thunder to the reeling shore,
Till caverned cliff and hanging wood
Roll back the echo of thy flood,
For there is one who slumbers now
Beneath thy bow-encircled brow,
Whose spirit hath a voice and sign
More strong, more terrible than thine.

A million hearts have heard that cry
Ring upward to the very sky;
It thunders still--it cannot sleep,
But louder than the troubled deep,
When the fierce spirit of the air
Hath made his arm of vengeance bare,
And wave to wave is calling loud
Beneath the veiling thunder-cloud;
That potent voice is sounding still--
The voice of unrequited ill.

Dark cataract of the lakes! thy name
Unholy deeds have linked to fame.
High soars to heaven thy giant head,
Even as a monument to him
Whose cold unheeded form is laid
Down, down amid thy caverns dim.
His requiem the fearful tone
Of waters falling