iest
Beside the temple's altar veiled his face
From that fire-written language of the sky.

Oh God of mystery! these fires are thine!
Thy breath hath kindled them, and there they burn
Amid the permanent glory of Thy heavens,
That earliest revelation written out
In starry language, visible to all,
Lifting unto Thyself the heavy eyes
Of the down-looking spirits of the earth!
The Indian, leaning on his hunting-bow,
Where the ice-mountains hem the frozen pole,
And the hoar architect of winter piles
With tireless hand his snowy pyramids,
Looks upward in deep awe,--while all around
The eternal ices kindle with the hues
Which tremble on their gleaming pinnacles
And sharp cold ridges of enduring frost,--
And points his child to the Great Spirit's fire.

Alas for us who boast of deeper lore,
If in the maze of our vague theories,
Our speculations, and our restless aim
To search the secret, and familiarize
The awful things of nature, we forget
To own Thy presence in Thy mysteries!

This imitation of "The Old Oaken Bucket" was written in 1826, when
Whittier was in his nineteenth year, and except a single stanza, no
part of it was ever before in print. The willow the young poet had in
mind was on the bank of Country Brook, near Country Bridge, and also
near the site of Thomas Whittier's log house. Mr. Whittier once pointed
out this spot to me as one in which he delighted in his youth. On a
grassy bank, almost encircled by a bend in the stream, stood, and
perhaps still stands, just such a "storm-battered, water-washed willow"
as is here described:--

THE WILLOW

Oh, dear to my heart are the scenes which delighted
My fancy in moments I ne'er can recall,
When each happy hour new pleasures invited,
And hope pictured visions more lovely than all.
When I gazed with a light heart transported and glowing
On the forest-crowned hill, and the rivulet's tide,
O'ershaded with tall grass, and rapidly flowing
Around the lone willow that stood by its side--
The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed
willow, that grew by its side.

Dear scenes of past years, when the objects around me
Seemed forms to awaken the transports of joy;
Ere yet the dull cares of experience had found me,
The dearly-loved visions of youth to destroy,--
Ye seem to awaken, wh