Farewell to the cliffs, tempest-beaten and gray,
Which guard the loved shores of my own native land;
Farewell to the village and sail-shadowed bay,
The forest-crowned hill and the water-washed strand."

His eyes swam; it was his own poem, the first he ever had in print.

[Illustration: WHITTIER'S STUDY AT AMESBURY, MASS.]

"What is the matter with thee?" his father demanded, seeing how dazed he
was; but, though he resumed his work on the wall, he could not speak,
and he had to steal a glance at the paper again and again, before he
could convince himself that he was not dreaming. Sure enough, the poem
was there with his initial at the foot of it,--"W., Haverhill, June 1st,
1826,"--and, better still, this editorial notice: "If 'W.,' at
Haverhill, will continue to favor us with pieces beautiful as the one
inserted in our poetical department of to-day, we shall esteem it a
favor."

Fame never passes true genius by, and when it came it brought with it
the love and reverence of thousands, who recognize in Whittier a nature
abounding in patience, unselfishness, and all the sweetness of Christian
charity.

[Footnote 1: The selections from Mr. Whittier's poems contained in this
article are included by kind permission of Messrs. Houghton,
Mifflin & Co.]