"I cannot doubt, if thou hadst been Among the highly favored men Who walked on earth with Fenelon, He would have owned thee as his son; "And, bright with wings of cherubim Visibly waving over him, Seen through his life, the Church had seemed All that its old confessors dreamed." "I would have been," Jean Jaques replied, "The humblest servant at his side, Obscure, unknown, content to see How beautiful man's life may be! "Oh, more than thrice-blest relic, more Than solemn rite or sacred lore, The holy life of one who trod The foot-marks of the Christ of God! "Amidst a blinded world he saw The oneness of the Dual law; That Heaven's sweet peace on Earth began, And God was loved through love of man. "He lived the Truth which reconciled The strong man Reason, Faith the child; In him belief and act were one, The homilies of duty done!" So speaking, through the twilight gray The two old pilgrims went their way. What seeds of life that day were sown, The heavenly watchers knew alone. Time passed, and Autumn came to fold Green Summer in her brown and gold; Time passed, and Winter's tears of snow Dropped on the grave-mound of Rousseau. "The tree remaineth where it fell, The pained on earth is pained in hell!" So priestcraft from its altars cursed The mournful doubts its falsehood nursed. Ah! well of old the Psalmist prayed, "Thy hand, not man's, on me be laid!" Earth frowns below, Heaven weeps above, And man is hate, but God is love! No Hermits now the wanderer sees, Nor chapel with its chestnut-trees; A morning dream, a tale that's told, The wave of change o'er all has rolled. Yet lives the lesson of that day; And from its twilight cool and gray Comes up a low, sad whisper, "Make The truth thine own, for truth's own sake. "Why wait to see in thy brief span Its perfect flower and fruit in man? No saintly touch can save; no balm Of healing hath the martyr's palm. "Midst soulless forms, and false pretence Of spiritual pride and pampered sense, A voice saith, 'What is that to thee? Be true thyself, and follow Me! "In days when throne and altar heard The wanton's wish, the bigot's word, And pomp of state and ritual show Scarce hid the loathsome death below,-- "Midst fawning priests and courtiers foul, The losel swarm of crown and cowl, White-robed walked Francois Fenelon, Stainless as Uriel in the sun! "Yet in his time the stake blazed red, The poor were eaten up like bread Men knew him not; his garment's hem No healing virtue had for them. "Alas! no present saint we find; The white cymar gleams far behind, Revealed in outline vague, sublime, Through telescopic mists of time!