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.