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. 'He worshipped as his fathers did, And kept the faith of childish days, And, howsoe'er he strayed or slid, He loved the good old ways. 'The simple tastes, the kindly traits, The tranquil air, and gentle speech, The silence of the soul that waits For more than man to teach. 'The cant of party, school, and sect, Provoked at times his honest scorn, And Folly, in its gray respect, He tossed on satire's horn. 'But still his heart was full of awe And reverence for all sacred things; And, brooding over form and law,' He saw the Spirit's wings! 'Life's mystery wrapt him like a cloud; He heard far voices mock his own, The sweep of wings unseen, the loud, Long roll of waves unknown. 'The arrows of his straining sight Fell quenched in darkness; priest and sage, Like lost guides calling left and right, Perplexed his doubtful age. 'Like childhood, listening for the sound Of its dropped pebbles in the well, All vainly down the dark profound His brief-lined plummet fell. 'So, scattering flowers with pious pains On old beliefs, of later creeds, Which claimed a place in Truth's domains, He asked the title-deeds. 'He saw the old-time's groves and shrines In the long distance fair and dim; And heard, like sound of f