Whittier was still to write nearly two hundred more poems, for he
lived to be eighty-five, and he composed until the last. But his
creative period was now over. He rejoiced in the friendly
recognition of his work that came to him from every section of a
reunited country. His personal friends were loyal in their
devotion. He followed the intricacies of American politics with
the keen zest of a veteran in that game, for in his time he had
made and unmade governors and senators. "The greatest politician
I have ever met," said James G. Blaine, who had certainly met
many. He had an income from his poems far in excess of his needs,
but retained the absolute simplicity of his earlier habits. When
his publishers first proposed the notable public dinner in honor
of his seventieth birthday he demurred, explaining to a member of
his family that he did not want the bother of "buying a new pair
of pants"--a petty anecdote, but somehow refreshing. So the
rustic, shrewd, gentle old man waited for the end. He had known
what it means to toil, to fight, to renounce, to eat his bread in
tears, and to see some of his dreams come true. We have had, and
shall have, more accomplished craftsmen in verse, but we have
never bred a more genuine man than Whittier, nor one who had more
kinship with the saints.

A few days before Whittier's death, he wrote an affectionate poem
in celebration of the eighty-third birthday of his old friend of
the Saturday Club, Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes. This was in 1892.
The little Doctor, rather lonely in his latest years, composed
some tender obituary verses at Whittier's passing. He had already
performed the same office for Lowell. He lingered himself until
the autumn of 1894, in his eighty-sixth year--"The Last Leaf," in