TO ———,

Maiden! with the fair brown tresses

Shading o'er thy dreamy eye,

Floating on thy thoughtful forehead

Cloud wreaths of its sky.

Youthful years and maiden beauty,

Joy with them should still abide,—

Instinct take the place of Duty,

Love, not Reason, guide.

Ever in the New rejoicing,

Kindly beckoning back the Old,

Turning, with the gift of Midas,

All things into gold.

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.