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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420470" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Channing</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not vainly did old poets tell,<br>Nor vainly did old genius paint<br>God's great and crowning miracle,<br>The hero and the saint!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For even in a faithless day<br>Can we our sainted ones discern;<br>And feel, while with them on the way,<br>Our hearts within us burn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And thus the common tongue and pen<br>Which, world-wide, echo Channing's fame,<br>As one of Heaven's anointed men,<br>Have sanctified his name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In vain shall Rome her portals bar,<br>And shut from him her saintly prize,<br>Whom, in the world's great calendar,<br>All men shall canonize.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">By Narragansett's sunny bay,<br>Beneath his green embowering wood,<br>To me it seems but yesterday<br>Since at his side I stood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The slopes lay green with summer rains,<br>The western wind blew fresh and free,<br>And glimmered down the orchard lanes<br>The white surf of the sea.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With us was one, who, calm and true,<br>Life's highest purpose understood,<br>And, like his blessed Master, knew<br>The joy of doing good.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unlearned, unknown to lettered fame,<br>Yet on the lips of England's poor<br>And toiling millions dwelt his name,<br>With blessings evermore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unknown to power or place, yet where<br>The sun looks o'er the Carib sea,<br>It blended with the freeman's prayer<br>And song of jubilee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He told of England's sin and wrong,<br>The ills her suffering children know,<br>The squalor of the city's throng,<br>The green field's want and woe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O'er Channing's face the tenderness<br>Of sympathetic sorrow stole,<br>Like a still shadow, passionless,<br>The sorrow of the soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But when the generous Briton told<br>How hearts were answering to his own,<br>And Freedom's rising murmur rolled<br>Up to the dull-eared throne,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I saw, methought, a glad surprise<br>Thrill through that frail and pain-worn frame,<br>And, kindling in those deep, calm eyes,<br>A still and earnest flame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His few, brief words were such as move<br>The human heart,--the Faith-sown seeds<br>Which ripen in the soil of love<br>To high heroic deeds.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No bars of sect or clime were felt,<br>The Babel strife of tongues had ceased,<br>And at one common altar knelt<br>The Quaker and the priest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And not in vain: with strength renewed,<br>And zeal refreshed, and hope less dim,<br>For that brief meeting, each pursued<br>The path allotted him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How echoes yet each Western hill<br>And vale with Channing's dying word!<br>How are the hearts of freemen still<br>By that great warning stirred.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The stranger treads his native soil,<br>And pleads, with zeal unfelt before,<br>The honest right of British toil,<br>The claim of England's poor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Before him time-wrought barriers fall,<br>Old fears subside, old hatreds melt,<br>And, stretching o'er the sea's blue wall,<br>The Saxon greets the Celt.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The yeoman on the Scottish lines,<br>The Sheffield grinder, worn and grim,<br>The delver in the Cornwall mines,<br>Look up with hope to him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Swart smiters of the glowing steel,<br>Dark feeders of the forge's flame,<br>Pale watchers at the loom and wheel,<br>Repeat his honored name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And thus the influence of that hour<br>Of converse on Rhode Island's strand<br>Lives in the calm, resistless power<br>Which moves our fatherland.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">God blesses still the generous thought,<br>And still the fitting word He speeds<br>And Truth, at His requiring taught,<br>He quickens into deeds.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where is the victory of the grave?<br>What dust upon the spirit lies?<br>God keeps the sacred life he gave,--<br>The prophet never dies!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420470" data-title="Channing de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="Not vainly did old poets tell,
Nor vainly did old genius paint
God's great and crowning miracle,
The hero and the saint!

For even in a faithless day
Can we our sainted ones discern;
And feel, while with them on the way,
Our hearts within us burn...."></div>
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