Festus - L’envoi

Read this, world! He who writes is dead to thee, But still lives in these leaves. He spake inspired: Night and day, thought came unhelped, undesired, Like blood to his heart. The course of study he Went through was of the soul--rack. The degree He took was high: it was wise wretchedness. He suffered perfectly, and gained no less A prize than, in his own torn heart, to see A few bright seeds: he sowed them--hoped them truth. The autumn of that seed is in these pages. God was with him; and bade old Time, to the youth, Unclench his heart, and teach the book of ages. Peace to thee, world!--farewell! Be God, whose power's Infinite, love and grace deific, ours!