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 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.
Ahwell 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!
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