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. 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.