writing verses for the papers
even then. Two years of study in the academy seem to have given him all
the special opportunity for education that he ever enjoyed. In 1829 he
edited a newspaper in Boston, and the next year assumed a similar position
in Hartford. For two years he was a member of the Massachusetts
legislature. In 1836 he edited an anti-slavery paper in Philadelphia, and
was secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society. Mr. Whittier wrote
extensively both in prose and verse. During the later years of his life he
published several volumes of poems, and contributed frequently to the
pages of the "Atlantic Monthly." An earnest opponent of slavery, some of
his poems bearing on that subject are fiery and even bitter; but, in
general, their sentiment is gentle, and often pathetic. As a poet, he took
rank among those most highly esteemed by his countrymen. "Snow-Bound,"
published in 1805, is one of the longest and best of his poems. Several of
his shorter pieces are marked by much smoothness and sweetness.
###

Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,--
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,--the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging, at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,--
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground mole sinks his well
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the groundnut trails its vine,
Where the wood grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!--
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy