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     Will cast its shade of doubt between
The failing eyes of Faith and thee.

Yet, lingering o'er thy charmed page,
     Where through the twilight air of earth,
Alike enthusiast and sage,
     Prophet and bard, thou gazest forth,

Lifting the Future's solemn veil;
     The reaching of a mortal hand
To put aside the cold and pale
     Cloud-curtains of the Unseen Land;

In thoughts which answer to my own,
     In words which reach my inward ear,
Like whispers from the void Unknown,
     I feel thy living presence here.

The waves which lull thy body's rest,
     The dust thy pilgrim footsteps trod,
Unwasted, through each change, attest
     The fixed economy of God.

Shall these poor elements outlive
     The mind whose kingly will they wrought?
Their gross unconsciousness survive
     Thy godlike energy of thought?

Thou livest, Follen! not in vain
     Hath thy fine spirit meekly borne
The burthen of Life's cross of pain,
     And the thorned crown of suffering worn.

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Charles Follen (1)
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