My Namesake

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 far-off pines,     The century-mellowed hymn!     "He dared not mock the Dervish whirl,     The Brahmin's rite, the Lama's spell;     God knew the heart; Devotion's pearl     Might sanctify the shell.     "While others trod the altar stairs     He faltered like the publican;     And, while they praised as saints, his prayers     Were those of sinful man.     "For, awed by Sinai's Mount of Law,     The trembling faith alone sufficed,     That, through its cloud and flame, he saw     The sweet, sad face of Christ!     "And listening, with his forehead bowed,     Heard the Divine compassion fill     The pauses of the trump and cloud     With whispers small and still.     "The words he spake, the thoughts he penned,     Are mortal as his hand and brain,     But, if they served the Master's end,     He has not lived in vain!"     Heaven make thee better than thy name,     Child of my friends! For thee I crave     What riches never bought, nor fame     To mortal longing gave.     I pray the prayer of Plato old:     God make thee beautiful within,     And let thine eyes the good behold     In everything save sin!     Imagination held in check     To serve, not rule, thy poised mind;     Thy Reason, at the frown or beck     Of Conscience, loose or bind.     No dreamer thou, but real all,     Strong manhood crowning vigorous youth;     Life made by duty epical     And rhythmic with the truth.     So shall that life the fruitage yield     Which trees of healing only give,     And green-leafed in the Eternal field     Of God, forever live