Addressed to Francis Greenleaf Allison of Burlington, New Jersey.
You scarcely need my tardy thanks,
Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend–
A green leaf on your own Green Banks–
The memory of your friend.
For me, no wreath, bloom-woven, hides
The sobered brow and lessening hair
For aught I know, the myrtled sides
Of Helicon are bare.
Their scallop-shells so many bring
The fabled founts of song to try,
They’ve drained, for aught I know, the spring
Of Aganippe dry.
Ah well!–The wreath the Muses braid
Proves often Folly’s cap and bell;
Methinks, my ample beaver’s shade
May serve my turn as well.
Let Love’s and Friendship’s tender debt
Be paid by those I love in life.
Why should the unborn critic whet
For me his scalping-knife?
Why should the stranger peer and pry
One’s vacant house of life about,
And drag for curious ear and eye
His faults and follies out?–
Why stuff, for fools to gaze upon,
With chaff of words, the garb he wore,
As corn-husks when the ear is gone
Are rustled all the more?
Let kindly Silence close again,
The picture vanish from the eye,
And on the dim and misty main
Let the small ripple die.
Yet not the less I own your claim
To grateful thanks, dear friends of mine.
Hang, if it please you so, my name
Upon your household line.
Let Fame from brazen lips blow wide
Her chosen names, I envy none
A mother’s love, a father’s pride,
Shall keep alive my own!
Still shall that name as now recall
The young leaf wet with morning dew,
The glory where the sunbeams fall
The breezy woodlands through.
That name shall be a household word,
A spell to waken smile or sigh;
In many an evening prayer be heard
And cradle lullaby.
And thou, dear child, in riper days
When asked the reason of thy name,
Shalt answer: One ‘t were vain to praise
Or censure bore the same.
“Some blamed him, some believed him good,
The truth lay doubtless ‘twixt the two;
He reconciled as best he could
Old faith and fancies new.
“In him the grave and playful mixed,
And wisdom held with folly truce,
And Nature compromised betwixt
Good fellow and recluse.
“He loved his friends, forgave his foes;
And, if his words were harsh at times,
He spared his fellow-men,–his blows
Fell only on their crimes.
“He loved the good and wise, but found
His human heart to all akin
Who met him on the common ground
Of suffering and of sin.
“Whate’er his neighbors might endure
Of pain or grief his own became;
For all the ills he could not cure
He held himself to blame.
“His good was mainly an intent,
His evil not of forethought done;
The work he wrought was rarely meant
Or finished as begun.
“Ill served his tides of feeling strong
To turn the common mills of use;
And, over restless wings of song,
His birthright garb hung loose!
“His eye was beauty’s powerless slave,
And his the ear which discord pains;
Few guessed beneath his aspect grave
What passions strove in chains.
“He had his share of care and pain,
No holiday was life to him;
Still in the heirloom cup we drain
The bitter drop will swim.
“Yet Heaven was kind, and here a bird
And there a flower beguiled his way;
And, cool, in summer noons, he heard
The fountains plash and play.
“On all his sad or restless moods
The patient peace of Nature stole;
The quiet of the fields and woods
Sank deep into his soul.