Page:The Writings of John Green Whittier (v.1).pdf/273

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
AMONG THE HILLS.
263
Church-goers, fearful of the unseen Powers,But grumbling over pulpit-tax and pew-rent,Saving, as shrewd economists, their soulsAnd winter pork with the least possible outlayOf salt and sanctity; in daily lifeShowing as little actual comprehensionOf Christian charity and love and duty,As if the Sermon on the Mount had beenOutdated like a last year’s almanacRich in broad woodlands and in half-tilled fields,And yet so pinched and bare and comfortless,The veriest straggler limping on his rounds,The sun and air his sole inheritance,Laughed at a poverty that paid its taxes,And hugged his rags in self-complacency!
Not such should be the homesteads of a landWhere whoso wisely wills and acts may dwellAs king and lawgiver, in broad-acred state,With beauty, art, taste, culture, books, to makeHis hour of leisure richer than a lifeOf fourscore to the barons of old time,Our yeoman should be equal to his homeSet in the fair, green valleys, purple walled,A man to match his mountains, not to creepDwarfed and abased below them. I would fainIn this light way (of which I needs must ownWith the knife-grinder of whom Canning sings,“Story, God bless you! I have none to tell you!”)Invite the eye to see and heart to feelThe beauty and the joy within their reach,—Home, and home loves, and the beatitudesOf nature free to all. Haply in years
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.