On Whittier's Eightieth Birthday

WHAT word from sunset borders can I send
As offering to the feast
Of the dear Poet, in whose praises blend
All voices, west and east ?
Here, by the ministry of sun and shower,
The year is young once more:
Colors of matchless bloom the hillsides dower,
Larks from the lowlands soar ;
The flowers that hid themselves from summer’s heat
Return in radiant throngs;
With violets the garden beds are sweet,
The grateful trees with songs.
Thus in the singer’s own celestial clime,
The summer of the heart,
Calm in the promised “light at evening time,”
Our Poet dwells apart.
His high, serene repose no frosts can blight,
Spring airs around him flow;
To his ripe age has come no wintry night,
But a rich afterglow.
With reverent eyes his tranquil steps we trace,
As vesper shades increase;
The brightness of two worlds upon his face,
Evening and morning peace.


Frances L. Mace.