Personal Poems I, vol 4, part 1 | Page 5

beauty?Which blended in thy song.?All lovely things, by thee beloved,?Shall whisper to our hearts of thee;?These green hills, where thy childhood roved,?Yon river winding to the sea,?The sunset light of autumn eves?Reflecting on the deep, still floods,?Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves?Of rainbow-tinted woods,?These, in our view, shall henceforth take?A tenderer meaning for thy sake;?And all thou lovedst of earth and sky,?Seem sacred to thy memory.?1841.
FOLLEN.
ON READING HIS ESSAY ON THE "FUTURE STATE."
Charles Follen, one of the noblest contributions of Germany to American citizenship, was at an early age driven from his professorship in the University of Jena, and compelled to seek shelter from official prosecution in Switzerland, on account of his liberal political opinions. He became Professor of Civil Law in the University of Basle. The governments of Prussia, Austria, and Russia united in demanding his delivery as a political offender; and, in consequence, he left Switzerland, and came to the United States. At the time of the formation of the American Anti-Slavery Society he was a Professor in Harvard University, honored for his genius, learning, and estimable character. His love of liberty and hatred of oppression led him to seek an interview with Garrison and express his sympathy with him. Soon after, he attended a meeting of the New England Anti-Slavery Society. An able speech was made by Rev. A. A. Phelps, and a letter of mine addressed to the Secretary of the Society was read. Whereupon he rose and stated that his views were in unison with those of the Society, and that after hearing the speech and the letter, he was ready to join it, and abide the probable consequences of such an unpopular act. He lost by so doing his professorship. He was an able member of the Executive Committee of the American Anti-Slavery Society. He perished in the ill-fated steamer Lexington, which was burned on its passage from New York, January 13, 1840. The few writings left behind him show him to have been a profound thinker of rare spiritual insight.
Friend of my soul! as with moist eye?I look up from this page of thine,?Is it a dream that thou art nigh,?Thy mild face gazing into mine?
That presence seems before me now,?A placid heaven of sweet moonrise,?When, dew-like, on the earth below?Descends the quiet of the skies.
The calm brow through the parted hair,?The gentle lips which knew no guile,?Softening the blue eye's thoughtful care?With the bland beauty of their smile.
Ah me! at times that last dread scene?Of Frost and Fire and moaning Sea?Will cast its shade of doubt between?The failing eyes of Faith and thee.
Yet, lingering o'er thy charmed page,?Where through the twilight air of earth,?Alike enthusiast and sage,?Prophet and bard, thou gazest forth,
Lifting the Future's solemn veil;?The reaching of a mortal hand?To put aside the cold and pale?Cloud-curtains of the Unseen Land;
Shall these poor elements outlive?The mind whose kingly will, they wrought??Their gross unconsciousness survive?Thy godlike energy of thought?
In thoughts which answer to my own,?In words which reach my inward ear,?Like whispers from the void Unknown,?I feel thy living presence here.
The waves which lull thy body's rest,?The dust thy pilgrim footsteps trod,?Unwasted, through each change, attest?The fixed economy of God.
Thou livest, Follen! not in vain?Hath thy fine spirit meekly borne?The burthen of Life's cross of pain,?And the thorned crown of suffering worn.
Oh, while Life's solemn mystery glooms?Around us like a dungeon's wall,?Silent earth's pale and crowded tombs,?Silent the heaven which bends o'er all!
While day by day our loved ones glide?In spectral silence, hushed and lone,?To the cold shadows which divide?The living from the dread Unknown;
While even on the closing eye,?And on the lip which moves in vain,?The seals of that stern mystery?Their undiscovered trust retain;
And only midst the gloom of death,?Its mournful doubts and haunting fears,?Two pale, sweet angels, Hope and Faith,?Smile dimly on us through their tears;
'T is something to a heart like mine?To think of thee as living yet;?To feel that such a light as thine?Could not in utter darkness set.
Less dreary seems the untried way?Since thou hast left thy footprints there,?And beams of mournful beauty play?Round the sad Angel's sable hair.
Oh! at this hour when half the sky?Is glorious with its evening light,?And fair broad fields of summer lie?Hung o'er with greenness in my sight;
While through these elm-boughs wet with rain?The sunset's golden walls are seen,?With clover-bloom and yellow grain?And wood-draped hill and stream between;
I long to know if scenes like this?Are hidden from an angel's eyes;?If earth's familiar loveliness?Haunts not thy heaven's serener skies.
For sweetly here upon thee grew?The lesson which that beauty gave,?The ideal of the pure and true?In earth and sky and gliding wave.
And it may be that all which lends?The soul an upward impulse here,?With a diviner beauty blends,?And greets us in a holier sphere.
Through groves where blighting never fell?The humbler flowers of earth may twine;?And