Whittier, John Greenleaf, commonly known
as the "Quaker Poet," was born at Haverhill,
Mass., December 17, 1807; and died
at Hampton Falls, N. H., September 7,
1892. Beginning life as a farmer boy and
village shoemaker, and with only a limited
education, he entered the profession of
journalism in 1828, becoming that year editor
of the American Manufacturer, published
in Boston, and in 1830 editor of the
New England Review. In 1836 he became
Secretary of the American Anti-Slavery
Society and editor of its official organ, the
Freeman. In Boston, Hartford, Haverhill,
Philadelphia, and Washington he pursued
his profession successfully for about twenty
years, after which, beginning with 1847,
he became the corresponding editor of the
National Era in Washington, D. C. He
was a strong advocate for the freedom of
the slaves, and his pen both as journalist
and poet was ever at the call of the cause
that was so near to his heart. The Quaker
poet was as much opposed to war as he
was to slavery. With the rigid and narrow
type of Calvinistic theology that so
long dominated New England he had no
sympathy, but felt that a part of his mission
as a poet was to rebuke and refute a
theology which he felt to be a caricature
upon the heart and character of God.
Many of his poems are described as "rhetoric
on fire with emotion." In his religious
poems he always magnified the goodness
and love of God for man and man's love
for and service of his fellow-man as that
which proves far better than creeds and
ceremonies could that one possesses the
Christian character. Whittier's poems are
pervaded by the ethical and religious element
more largely, perhaps, than is true of
the writings of any other great English
poet of modern times. From 1824 to the
year of his death (1892) he wrote and
published poems singly in periodicals and
collectively in book form. From these
poems about seventy-five hymns have been
made by selecting verses of religious and
devotional sentiments. Our Hymnal contains seven of his hymns:
| Dear Lord and Father of mankind |
543 |
| I bow my forehead in the dust |
472 |
| It may not be our lot to wield |
398 |
| O Love! O Life! Our faith and sight |
479 |
| Our thought of thee is glad with |
712 |
| We may not climb the heavenly |
128 |
| When on my day of life the night |
589 |
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