Shall whisper to our hearts of thee;
These green hills, where thy childhood roved,
Yon river winding to the sea,
The sunset light of autumn eves
Reflecting on the deep, still floods,
Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves
Of rainbow-tinted woods,
These, in our view, shall henceforth take
A tenderer meaning for thy sake;
And all thou lovedst of earth and sky,
Seem sacred to thy memory.
1841.
On reading his essay on the
“Future state.”
Charles Follen, one of the noblest
contributions of Germany to American citizenship,
was at an early age driven from his professorship
in the University of Jena, and compelled to seek shelter
from official prosecution in Switzerland, on account
of his liberal political opinions. He became
Professor of Civil Law in the University of Basle.
The governments of Prussia, Austria, and Russia
united in demanding his delivery as a political offender;
and, in consequence, he left Switzerland, and
came to the United States. At the time of
the formation of the American Anti-Slavery Society
he was a Professor in Harvard University, honored for
his genius, learning, and estimable character.
His love of liberty and hatred of oppression
led him to seek an interview with Garrison and express
his sympathy with him. Soon after, he attended
a meeting of the New England Anti-Slavery Society.
An able speech was made by Rev. A. A. Phelps,
and a letter of mine addressed to the Secretary of
the Society was read. Whereupon he rose and stated
that his views were in unison with those of the
Society, and that after hearing the speech and
the letter, he was ready to join it, and abide
the probable consequences of such an unpopular act.
He lost by so doing his professorship. He
was an able member of the Executive Committee
of the American Anti-Slavery Society. He perished
in the ill-fated steamer Lexington, which was burned
on its passage from New York, January 13, 1840.
The few writings left behind him show him to
have been a profound thinker of rare spiritual
insight.
Friend of my soul! as with moist eye
I look up from this page of thine,
Is it a dream that thou art nigh,
Thy mild face gazing into mine?
That presence seems before me now,
A placid heaven of sweet moonrise,
When, dew-like, on the earth below
Descends the quiet of the skies.
The calm brow through the parted hair,
The gentle lips which knew no guile,
Softening the blue eye’s thoughtful care
With the bland beauty of their smile.
Ah me! at times that last dread scene
Of Frost and Fire and moaning Sea
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,
