"Bear up, O Mother Nature !" cry Bird, breeze, and streamlet free; "Our winter voices prophesy Of summer days to thee!" So, in those winters of the soul, The Night is mother of the Day, The greenest mosses cling. 4th 1st month, 1847. ΤΟ WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL. "Get the writings of John Woolman by heart." Essays of Elia. MAIDEN! with the fair brown tresses Youthful years and maiden beauty, Ever in the New rejoicing, And the passing shades of sadness Every wing of bird above it, Every light cloud floating on, Glitters like that Cashing mirror But upon thy youthful forehead With an early introversion, Deeper than the gilded surface Thou hast midst Life's empty noises All the mystery of Being Hath upon thy spirit pressed, Thoughts which, like the Deluge wan derer, Find no place of rest: That which mystic Plato pondered, In his night-watch saw. From the doubt and darkness spring. ing 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, Oracles, whose wire-worked meanings, But, like some tired child at even, On thy mother Nature's breast, Thou, methinks, art vainly seeking Truth, and peace, and rest. ΤΟ 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, And cool fountains flow. And to thee an answer cometh From the earth and from the sky, But a soul-sufficing answer More than Nature's many voices Even as the great Augustine Questioned earth and sea and sky,40 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 Not to ease and aimless quiet Not to idle dreams and trances, |