Here you will find the Long Poem June On The Merrimac of poet John Greenleaf Whittier
O dwellers in the stately towns, What come ye out to see? This common earth, this common sky, This water flowing free? As gayly as these kalmia flowers Your door-yard blossoms spring; As sweetly as these wild-wood birds Your caged minstrels sing. You find but common bloom and green, The rippling river's rune, The beauty which is everywhere Beneath the skies of June; The Hawkswood oaks, the storm-torn plumes Of old pine-forest kings, Beneath whose century-woven shade Deer Island's mistress sings. And here are pictured Artichoke, And Curson's bowery mill; And Pleasant Valley smiles between The river and the hill. You know full well these banks of bloom, The upland's wavy line, And how the sunshine tips with fire The needles of the pine. Yet, like some old remembered psalm, Or sweet, familiar face, Not less because of commonness You love the day and place. And not in vain in this soft air Shall hard-strung nerves relax, Not all in vain the o'erworn brain Forego its daily tax. The lust of power, the greed of gain Have all the year their own; The haunting demons well may let Our one bright day alone. Unheeded let the newsboy call, Aside the ledger lay The world will keep its treadmill step Though we fall out to-day. The truants of life's weary school, Without excuse from thrift We change for once the gains of toil For God's unpurchased gift. From ceiled rooms, from silent books, From crowded car and town, Dear Mother Earth, upon thy lap, We lay our tired heads down. Cool, summer wind, our heated brows; Blue river, through the green Of clustering pines, refresh the eyes Which all too much have seen. For us these pleasant woodland ways Are thronged with memories old, Have felt the grasp of friendly hands And heard love's story told. A sacred presence overbroods The earth whereon we meet; These winding forest-paths are trod By more than mortal feet. Old friends called from us by the voice Which they alone could hear, From mystery to mystery, From life to life, draw near. More closely for the sake of them Each other's hands we press; Our voices take from them a tone Of deeper tenderness. Our joy is theirs, their trust is ours, Alike below, above, Or here or there, about us fold The arms of one great love! We ask to-day no countersign, No party names we own; Unlabelled, individual, We bring ourselves alone. What cares the unconventioned wood For pass-words of the town? The sound of fashion's shibboleth The laughing waters drown. Here cant forgets his dreary tone, And care his face forlorn; The liberal air and sunshine laugh The bigot's zeal to scorn. From manhood's weary shoulder falls His load of selfish cares; And woman takes her rights as flowers And brooks and birds take theirs. The license of the happy woods, The brook's release are ours; The freedom of the unshamed wind Among the glad-eyed flowers. Yet here no evil thought finds place, Nor foot profane comes in; Our grove, like that of Samothrace, Is set apart from sin. We walk on holy ground; above A sky more holy smiles; The chant of the beatitudes Swells down these leafy aisles. Thanks to the gracious Providence That brings us here once more; For memories of the good behind And hopes of good before. And if, unknown to us, sweet days Of June like this must come, Unseen of us these laurels clothe The river-banks with bloom; And these green paths must soon be trod By other feet than ours, Full long may annual pilgrims come To keep the Feast of Flowers; The matron be a girl once more, The bearded man a boy, And we, in heaven's eternal June, Be glad for earthly joy!