And the passing shades of sadness Wearing even a welcome guise, As, when some bright lake lies open To the sunny skies,
Every wing of bird above it, Every light cloud floating on, Glitters like that flashing mirror In the self-same sun.
But upon thy youthful forehead Something like a shadow lies; And a serious soul is looking From thy earnest eyes.
With an early introversion, Through the forms of outward things, Seeking for the subtle essence, And the bidden springs.
Deeper than the gilded surface Hath thy wakeful vision seen, Farther than the narrow present Have thy journeyings been.
Thou hast midst Life's empty noises Heard the solemn steps of Time, And the low mysterious voices Of another clime.
All the mystery of Being Hath upon thy spirit pressed,-- Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer, Find no place of rest:
That which mystic Plato pondered, That which Zeno heard with awe, And the star-rapt Zoroaster In his night-watch saw.
From the doubt and darkness springing Of the dim, uncertain Past, Moving to the dark still shadows O'er the Future cast,
Early hath Life's mighty question Thrilled within thy heart of youth, With a deep and strong beseeching What and where is Truth?
Hollow creed and ceremonial, Whence the ancient life hath fled, Idle faith unknown to action, Dull and cold and dead.
Oracles, whose wire-worked meanings Only wake a quiet scorn,-- Not from these thy seeking spirit Hath its answer drawn.
But, like some tired child at even, On thy mother Nature's breast, Thou, methinks, art vainly seeking Truth, and peace, and rest.
O'er that mother's rugged features Thou art throwing Fancy's veil, Light and soft as woven moonbeams, Beautiful and frail
O'er the rough chart of Existence, Rocks of sin and wastes of woe, Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble, And cool fountains flow.
And to thee an answer cometh From the earth and from the sky, And to thee the hills and waters And the stars reply.
But a soul-sufficing answer Hath no outward origin; More than Nature's many voices May be heard within.
Even as the great Augustine Questioned earth and sea and sky, And the dusty tomes of learning And old poesy.
But his earnest spirit needed More than outward Nature taught; More than blest the poet's vision Or the sage's thought.
Only in the gathered silence Of a calm and waiting frame, Light and wisdom as from Heaven To the seeker came.
Not to ease and aimless quiet Doth that inward answer tend, But to works of love and duty As our being's end;
Not to idle dreams and trances, Length of face, and solemn tone, But to Faith, in daily striving And performance shown.
Earnest toil and strong endeavor Of a spirit which within Wrestles with familiar evil And besetting sin;
And without, with tireless vigor, Steady heart, and weapon strong, In the power of truth assailing Every form of wrong.
Guided thus, how passing lovely Is the track of Woolman's feet!
And his brief and simple record How serenely sweet!
O'er life's humblest duties throwing Light the earthling never knew, Freshening all its dark waste places As with Hermon's dew.
All which glows in Pascal's pages, All which sainted Guion sought, Or the blue-eyed German Rahel Half-unconscious taught
Beauty, such as Goethe pictured, Such as Shelley dreamed of, shed Living warmth and starry brightness Round that poor man's head.
Not a vain and cold ideal, Not a poet's dream alone, But a presence warm and real, Seen and felt and known.
When the red right-hand of slaughter Moulders with the steel it swung, When the name of seer and poet Dies on Memory's tongue,
All bright thoughts and pure shall gather Round that meek and suffering one,-- Glorious, like the seer-seen angel Standing in the sun!
Take the good man's book and ponder What its pages say to thee; Blessed as the hand of healing May its lesson be.
If it only serves to strengthen Yearnings for a higher good, For the fount of living waters And diviner food;
If the pride of human reason Feels its meek and still rebuke, Quailing like the eye of Peter From the Just One's look!
If with readier ear thou heedest What the Inward Teacher saith, Listening with a willing spirit And a childlike faith,--
Thou mayst live to bless the giver, Who, himself but frail and weak, Would at least the highest welfare Of another seek;
And his gift, though poor and lowly It may seem to other eyes, Yet may prove an angel holy In a pilgrim's guise.
1840.
LEGGETT'S MONUMENT.
William Leggett, who died in 1839 at the age of thirty-seven, was the intrepid editor of the New York Evening Post and afterward of The Plain Dealer. His vigorous assault upon the system of slavery brought down upon him the enmity of political defenders of the system.
"Ye build the tombs of the prophets."--Holy Writ.
Yes, pile the marble o'er him! It is well That ye who mocked him in his long stern strife, And planted in the pathway of his life The ploughshares of your hatred hot from hell, Who clamored down the bold reformer when He pleaded for his captive fellow-men, Who spurned him in the market-place, and sought Within thy walls, St. Tammany, to bind In party chains the free and honest thought, The angel utterance of an upright mind, Well is it now that o'er his grave ye raise The stony tribute of your tardy praise, For not alone that pile shall tell to Fame Of the brave heart beneath, but of the builders' shame!
1841.
TO A FRIEND, ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE.
How smiled the land of France Under thy blue eye's glance, Light-hearted rover Old walls of chateaux gray, Towers of an early day, Which the Three Colors play Flauntingly over.
Now midst the brilliant train Thronging the banks of Seine Now midst the splendor Of the wild Alpine range, Waking with change on change Thoughts in thy young heart strange, Lovely, and tender.