" To Hahnemann, August 10, 1843"
Sleep gently wrappeth thee now
in her fold,
Thee, truth's grandest teacher, weary and old,
new light just gilds the edge of the cloud
That. born of old
night, appals like a shroud.
Disunited, thy friends halt on the
In old paths of habit, faint-hearted, stray.
whose exile shames thy own fatherland,
Thunder above them burn
their hearts where they stand
With thy fire of soul till,
wakened, they find
In thy sacred laurels new triumphs twined.
to the false gods, destroyer, well tried,
To prophets of lies
then cry - homicide !
May the brilliant light of thy guardian
A fear and remorse, pursue them afar !
thy friendly hand as of yore ;
From folly to reason turn them
That at last the holy truth they adore.
of men, 0, thou father of health
Art well dowered at last with
Immortality's wealth !