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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420742" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Merrimac</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Stream of my fathers! sweetly still<br>The sunset rays thy valley fill;<br>Poured slantwise down the long defile,<br>Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile.<br>I see the winding Powow fold<br>The green hill in its belt of gold,<br>And following down its wavy line,<br>Its sparkling waters blend with thine.<br>There 's not a tree upon thy side,<br>Nor rock, which thy returning tide<br>As yet hath left abrupt and stark<br>Above thy evening water-mark;<br>No calm cove with its rocky hem,<br>No isle whose emerald swells begin<br>Thy broad, smooth current; not a sail<br>Bowed to the freshening ocean gale;<br>No small boat with its busy oars,<br>Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores;<br>Nor farm-house with its maple shade,<br>Or rigid poplar colonnade,<br>But lies distinct and full in sight,<br>Beneath this gush of sunset light.<br>Centuries ago, that harbor-bar,<br>Stretching its length of foam afar,<br>And Salisbury's beach of shining sand,<br>And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand,<br>Saw the adventurer's tiny sail,<br>Flit, stooping from the eastern gale;<br>And o'er these woods and waters broke<br>The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak,<br>As brightly on the voyager's eye,<br>Weary of forest, sea, and sky,<br>Breaking the dull continuous wood,<br>The Merrimac rolled down his flood;<br>Mingling that clear pellucid brook,<br>Which channels vast Agioochook<br>When spring-time's sun and shower unlock<br>The frozen fountains of the rock,<br>And more abundant waters given<br>From that pure lake, 'The Smile of Heaven,'<br>Tributes from vale and mountain-side,-<br>With ocean's dark, eternal tide!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On yonder rocky cape, which braves<br>The stormy challenge of the waves,<br>Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood,<br>The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood,<br>Planting upon the topmost crag<br>The staff of England's battle-flag;<br>And, while from out its heavy fold<br>Saint George's crimson cross unrolled,<br>Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare,<br>And weapons brandishing in air,<br>He gave to that lone promontory<br>The sweetest name in all his story;<br>Of her, the flower of Islam's daughters,<br>Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters,-<br>Who, when the chance of war had bound<br>The Moslem chain his limbs around,<br>Wreathed o'er with silk that iron chain,<br>Soothed with her smiles his hours of pain,<br>And fondly to her youthful slave<br>A dearer gift than freedom gave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But look! the yellow light no more<br>Streams down on wave and verdant shore;<br>And clearly on the calm air swells<br>The twilight voice of distant bells.<br>From Ocean's bosom, white and thin,<br>The mists come slowly rolling in;<br>Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim,<br>Amidst the sea-like vapor swim,<br>While yonder lonely coast-light, set<br>Within its wave-washed minaret,<br>Half quenched, a beamless star and pale,<br>Shines dimly through its cloudy veil!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Home of my fathers!-I have stood<br>Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood<br>Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade<br>Along his frowning Palisade;<br>Looked down the Appalachian peak<br>On Juniata's silver streak;<br>Have seen along his valley gleam<br>The Mohawk's softly winding stream;<br>The level light of sunset shine<br>Through broad Potomac's hem of pine;<br>And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner<br>Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna;<br>Yet wheresoe'er his step might be,<br>Thy wandering child looked back to thee!<br>Heard in his dreams thy river's sound<br>Of murmuring on its pebbly bound,<br>The unforgotten swell and roar<br>Of waves on thy familiar shore;<br>And saw, amidst the curtained gloom<br>And quiet of his lonely room,<br>Thy sunset scenes before him pass;<br>As, in Agrippa's magic glass,<br>The loved and lost arose to view,<br>Remembered groves in greenness grew,<br>Bathed still in childhood's morning dew,<br>Along whose bowers of beauty swept<br>Whatever Memory's mourners wept,<br>Sweet faces, which the charnel kept,<br>Young, gentle eyes, which long had slept;<br>And while the gazer leaned to trace,<br>More near, some dear familiar face,<br>He wept to find the vision flown,-<br>A phantom and a dream alone!</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=420742" data-title="The Merrimac de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="Stream of my fathers! sweetly still
The sunset rays thy valley fill;
Poured slantwise down the long defile,
Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile.
I see the winding Powow fold
The green hill in its belt of gold,
And following down its wavy line..."></div>
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