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. 1840. LEGGETT'S MONUMENT. William Leggett, who died in 1839 at the age of thirty-seven, was the intrepid editor of the New York Evening Post and afterward of The Plain Dealer. His vigorous assault upon the system of slavery brought down upon him the enmity of political defenders of the system. "Ye build the tombs of the prophets."--Holy Writ.