"Bear up, oh mother Nature!" cry Bird, breeze, and streamlet free; "Our winter voices prophesy

Of summer days to thee!"

So, in those winters of the soul,
By bitter blasts and drear
O'erswept from Memory's frozen pole,

Will sunny days appear.
Reviving Hope and Faith, they show
The soul its living powers,

And how beneath the winter's snow
Lie germs of summer flowers!

The Night is mother of the Day,
The Winter of the Spring,
And ever upon old Decay

The greenest mosses cling.

Behind the cloud the star-light lurks,
Through showers the sunbeams fall;
For God, who loveth all His works,
Has left His Hope with all!

4th 1st month, 1847.

WITH

то

A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL.*

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 a power like 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.

*"Get the writings of John Woolman by heart."-Essays of Elia.

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 hidden 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 pressedThoughts 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.

*August. Sililoq. cap. xxxi. "Interrogavi Terram," &c.

But his earnest spirit needed

More than outward Nature taughtMore 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.