THE SPIRIT-CHILD. BY “JENNIE.” 41
RECONCILIATION, 48
HOPE FOR THE SORROWING, 54
COMPENSATION, 57
THE EAGLE OF FREEDOM, 63
MISTRESS GLENARE. BY “MARIAN,” 66
LITTLE JOHNNY, 70
“BIRDIE’S” SPIRIT-SONG, 73
MY SPIRIT-HOME. [A. W. SPRAGUE.] 76
I STILL LIVE. [A. W. SPRAGUE.] 80
LIFE. [SHAKSPEARE.] 86
LOVE. [SHAKSPEARE.] 92
FOR A’ THAT. [BURNS.] 97
WORDS O’ CHEER. [BURNS.] 99
RESURREXI. [POE.] 104
THE PROPHECY OF VALA. [POE.] 109
THE KINGDOM. [POE.] 118
THE CRADLE OR COFFIN. [POE.] 124
THE STREETS OF BALTIMORE. [POE.] 128
THE MYSTERIES OF GODLINESS. A LECTURE. 134
FAREWELL TO EARTH. [POE.] 162
A WORD TO THE WORLD.
In presenting this volume to the public, I trust that I may be allowed,
without incurring the charge of egotism, to say somewhat concerning my
spiritual experience, and the manner in which these poems were
originated. I am, in a measure, under the necessity of doing this, lest
some over-anxious friend, or would-be critic, should undertake the work
for me, and thereby place me, either unconsciously or intentionally, in
a false position before the public.
By the advice of those invisible intelligences, whose presence and power
I freely acknowledge, seconded by my own judgment, I have given to this
work the title of “Poems from the Inner Life;” for, aside from the
external phenomena of Modern Spiritualism,--which, compared to the great
principles underlying them, are but mere froth and foam on the ocean of
Truth,--I have realized that in the mysterious depths of the Inner Life,
all souls can hold communion with those invisible beings, who are our
companions both in Time and Eternity. My vision has been dim and
indistinct, my hearing confused by the jarring discords of earthly
existence, and my utterances of a wisdom, higher than my own, impeded by
my selfish conceits and vain imaginings. Yet, notwithstanding all this,
the solemn convictions of my spiritual surroundings, and the mutual ties
of interest still existing between souls, “whether in the body or out of
the body,” have been indelibly impressed upon me. From such experiences
I have learned--in a sense hitherto unknown--that “the kingdom of Heaven
is within me.” I know that many sincere and earnest souls will decide at
once, in the integrity of their well-trained intellects, that this
claim to an intercourse with the invisible world is an extravagant
assumption, and has no foundation in truth. To such I would say, I shall
make no effort to persuade your reason and judgment. I only offer to you
as a suggestion, that which has been realized by me in my spiritual
experience, and has become to me an abiding truth, full of strength for
the present, and hope for the future. When your souls sincerely hunger
after such a revelation, you will seek for it, and according to your
need, you will be filled therewith. Until then, you and I, regarding
things from a different point of view, must inevitably understand them
differently. There are various cups which Humanity must drink of, and
“baptisms which it must be baptized with,” and this manifestation of
Truth, of which I am but one of the humble representatives, has laid its
controlling hand upon me; for what purpose, in the mysterious results
which lie concealed in the future, I cannot tell--I only know that it is
so.
Looking back upon my experience, I cannot doubt that I--with many
others--was destined to this phase of development, and designed for this
peculiar work, before I knew conscious being. My brain was fashioned,
and my nervous system finely strung, so that I should inevitably catch
the thrill of the innumerable voices resounding through the universe,
and translate their messages into human language, as coherently and
clearly as my imperfections would allow. The early influences of my
childhood, the experiences of later years, and more than all, that
unutterable yearning for Beauty and Harmony, which I felt dimly
conscious was somewhere in the universe, all tended to drive me back
from the world, which would not and could not give me what I asked, to
the revelations of my inner life,--to the “Heaven within me.” It was
only through the cultivation of my spiritual nature that “spiritual
things were to be discerned,” and the stern necessity of my life was the
Teacher which finally educated me into the perception of Truth.
I turn back to the memories of my childhood--to that long course of
trying experiences through which I passed, guided by strange and
invisible influences; and that whole course of discipline has for me now
a peculiar significance. Those who were near and dear to me, and who
were most familiar with my habits of life, knew little of my intense
spiritual experience. I was too much afraid of being ridiculed and
misunderstood to dare give any expression to the strange and indefinable
emotions within me. Such ones, however, may call to mind the child who
often, through the long winter evenings, sat in profound silence by the
fireside, with her head and face enveloped in her apron, to exclude, as
far as possible, all external sight and sound. What I heard and saw then
but dimly returns to me; but even then the revelations from the “Heaven
within” had commenced, and succeeding years have so strengthened and
confirmed my vision, that such scenes have become to me living truths
and blessed realities. The “Heaven” that “lay about me in my infancy”
sent its rich glow through my childhood, and sheds its mystic brightness
upon the pathway of my riper years.
Often, in the retirement of a small closet, I spent hours in total
darkness, lying prostrate on the floor, beating the waves of the
mysterious Infinite that rolled in a stormy flood over me, and with
prayers and tears beseeching deliverance from my blindness and seeming
unbelief. Then, when by my earnestness the spirit had become stronger
than the flesh, I would gradually fall into a deep trance, from which I
would arise strengthened and consoled by the assurance--from whence I
could not tell--that somewhere in the future I should find all the life,
and light, and freedom that my soul desired. The only evidence or
knowledge which those around me received of such visitations was
occasionally a poem--some of them written so early in life, that the
childish chirography rendered them almost illegible. Because of these
early productions, it has been asserted that my claim to any individual
spirit-influence was either a falsehood or delusion. I will only say in
reply, that there is no need of entering upon any argument on the
subject. I claim both a general and particular inspiration. They do not,
by any means, conflict; and what I do not receive from one, comes from
the other. For the very reason that I have natural poetic tendencies, I
attract influences of a kindred nature; and when I desire it, or they
will to do so, they cast their characteristic inspirations upon me, and
I give them utterance according to my ability. It is often as difficult
to decide what is the action of one’s own intellect and what is
spirit-influence, as it is in our ordinary associations to determine
what is original with ourselves and what we have received from
circumstances or contact with the mind of others. Yet, nevertheless,
there are cases where the distinction is so evident that it is not to be
doubted. Only one or two such well-attested instances is sufficient to
establish the theory. I am not willing to ignore one faculty or power of
my being for the sake of proving a favorite idea; and, on the contrary,
I cannot conscientiously deny that, in the mysteries of my inner life, I
have been acted upon decidedly and directly by disembodied
intelligences, and this, sometimes, by an inspiration characteristic of
the individual, or by a psychological influence similar to that whereby
mind acts upon mind in the body. Under such influences I have not
necessarily lost my individuality, or become wholly unconscious. I was,
for the time being, like a harp in the hands of superior powers, and
just in proportion as my entire nature was attuned to thrill responsive
to their touch, did I give voice and expression to their unwritten
music. They furnished the inspiration, but it was of necessity modified
by the nature and character of the instrument upon which they played,
for the most skilful musician cannot change the tone of a harp to the
sound of a trumpet, though he may give a characteristic expression of
himself through either.
The presence and influence of these powers is to me no new or recent
occurrence, although I may not have understood them in the same light as
I do at present. They have formed a part of all my past life, and I can
trace the evidence of spiritual assistance running like a golden thread
through all my intellectual efforts. As I do not desire to practise any
deception upon the public, but on the contrary only wish to declare the
simple truth, I have published in this volume quite a number of poems,
written several years previous to my appearance before the public as a
medium or a speaker. Although these were mostly wrought out of my brain
by the slow process of thought, yet for some of these, even, I can claim
as direct and special an inspiration as for those delivered upon the
platform. The first poem in this present work,--“The Prayer of the
Sorrowing,”--and that which immediately succeeds it,--“The Song of
Truth,”--containing in itself an answer to the Prayer, were given to me
under peculiar circumstances. The first was the language of my own soul,
intensified by an occasion of great mental anguish. The second,
following directly upon it, was an illumination of my entire being, when
I seemed to have wept away the scales from my eyes, and “by the deep
conflict of my soul in prayer,” to have broken the fetters of my
mortality, and stepped forth into that freedom whereby I stood face to
face with the ministering spirits, and heard that “Song of Truth”
sounding through the universe. I have only known but few such
visitations in my lifetime, but when they have come, I have felt that I
have taken a free, deep breath of celestial air, and caught a glimpse of
the Realities of Things. As an immediate consequence, my spirit has
become braver and stronger, and long after my inward vision was closed,
the cheering light of that blessed revelation has lingered in my heart.
Another poem, which bore evidence to me of an inspiration acting upon
me, and external to myself, was the “Song of the North,” relating to the
fate of Sir John Franklin and his men. I was desired to write an
illustration for a plate, about to appear in the “Lily of the Valley,”
an Annual published by J. M. Usher, of Cornhill, Boston. I endeavored to
do so, but day after day passed by and my labor was in vain, for not one
acceptable idea would suggest itself. The publisher sent for the
article, but it was not in being. One day, however, I was seized with an
indefinable uneasiness. I wandered up and down through the house and
garden, till finally the idea of what I was to do became clearly
defined; then, with my paper and pencil, I hastened to a quiet corner in
the attic, where nearly all my poems had been written, and there I wrote
the Song of the North--so rapidly, that it was scarce legible, and I
was obliged to copy it at once, lest I should lose the connection. The
next day it seemed as foreign and strange to me as it would to any one
who had never seen it. At the time this was written (in April, 1853)
strong hopes were entertained of the discovery of Franklin and his men,
together with their safe return; therefore I hesitated to make public
that which seemed a decided affirmation to the contrary. Nevertheless,
so strong were my convictions as to the truth of the poem, that I
allowed it to be published. Later revelations concerning the fate of
that brave adventurer and his companions gave to the poem somewhat of
the character of a prophecy.
How far I have ever written, independent of these higher influences, I
cannot say; I only know that all the poems under my own name have come
from the deep places of my “Inner Life;” and in that self-same sacred
retreat--which I have entered either by the intense concentration of all
my intellectual powers, or a passive surrender to the inspirations that
moved upon me--I have held conscious communion with disembodied spirits.
At such times it has been said I was “entranced;” and although that term
does not exactly express my idea, perhaps it is the best which can yet
be found in our language. The avenues of external sense, if not entirely
closed, were at least disused, in order that the spiritual perceptions
might be quickened to the required degree, and also that the world of
causes, of which earth and its experiences are but the passing effects,
might be disclosed to my vision. Certain it is that a physical change
took place, affecting both my breathing and circulation, and my
clairvoyant powers were so strengthened that I could dimly perceive
external objects from the frontal portion of my brain, even with my eyes
closed and bandaged; also, in that state, any excess of light was far
more painful than under ordinary conditions. If the communications given
through my instrumentality have been weak, erroneous, and imperfect, it
is no fault of my spirit-teachers, but arises rather from my own
inability to understand or clearly express what was communicated to me.
In relation to the poems given under direct spirit-influence I would
say, that there has been a mistake existing in many minds concerning
them, which I take the present opportunity, as far as possible, to
correct. They were not like lightning flashes, coming unheralded, and
vanishing without leaving a trace behind. Several days before they were
given, I would receive intimations of them. Oftentimes, and particularly
under the influence of Poe, I would awake in the night from a deep
slumber, and detached fragments of those poems would be floating through
my mind, though in a few moments after they would vanish like a dream. I
have sometimes awakened myself by repeating them aloud. I have been
informed, also, by these influences, that all their poems are as
complete and finished in spirit-life as they are in this, and the only
reason why they cannot be repeated again and again is because of the
difficulty of bringing a human organism always into the same state of
exaltation--a state in which mediums readily receive inspiration, and
render the poems with the least interference of their own intellect.
Among these spiritual poems will be found two purporting to come from
Shakspeare. This influence seemed to overwhelm and crush me. I was
afraid, and shrank from it. Only those two poems were given, and then
the attempt was not repeated. I do not think that the poems in
themselves come up to the productions of his master mind. They are only
intimations of what might have been, if he had had a stronger and more
effectual instrument upon which to pour his inspirations. I have no
doubt that time will yet furnish one upon whom his mantle will fall; but
I can only say that his power was mightier than I could bear. As I have
regarded him spiritually, he seems to be a majestic intellect, but one
that overawes rather than attracts me; and my conclusion has been, that
while in the flesh, although he was of himself a mighty mind, yet still
he spake wiser than he knew, being moved upon by those superior powers
who choose men for their mouthpieces, and oblige them to speak startling
words into the dull ear of the times. As all Nature is a manifestation
of Deity, so all Humanity is a manifestation of mind,--differing,
however, in degrees of development,--and one body serves as an
instrument to effect the purposes of many minds. This is illustrated in
the pursuits and employments of ordinary life, and has a far deeper
significance when taken in connection with the invisible world.
The influence of Burns was pleasant, easy, and exhilarating, and left me
in a cheerful mood. As a spirit, he seemed to be genial and kindly, with
a clear perception and earnest love of simple truth, and at the same
time a good-natured contempt for all shams, mere forms, and solemn
mockeries. This was the way in which he impressed me, and I felt much
more benefited than burdened by his presence.
The first poem delivered by Poe, came to me far more unexpectedly than
any other. By referring to the introductory remarks, copied from the
“Springfield Republican,” it will be seen that the supposition is
presented, that I, or “the one who wrote the poem,” must have been very
familiar with the writings of Poe. As no one wrote the poem for me,
consequently I am the only one who can answer to the supposition; and I
can say, most conscientiously, that previous to that time I had never
read, to my knowledge, any of his poems, save “The Raven,” and I had not
seen that for several years. Indeed, I may well say in this connection,
that I have read, comparatively speaking, very little poetry in the
course of my life, and have never made the style of any author a study.
The influence of Poe was neither pleasant nor easy. I can only describe
it as a species of mental intoxication. I was tortured with a feeling
of great restlessness and irritability, and strange, incongruous images
crowded my brain. Some were bewildering and dazzling as the sun, others
dark and repulsive. Under his influence, particularly, I suffered the
greatest exhaustion of vital energy, so much so, that after giving one
of his poems, I was usually quite ill for several days.
But from his first poem to the last,--“The Farewell to Earth,”--was a
marked, and rapid change. It would seem as though, in that higher life,
where the opportunities for spiritual development far transcend those of
earth, that by his quick and active perceptions he had seized upon the
Divine Idea which was endeavoring to find expression through his life,
both in Time and Eternity; and that from the moment this became
apparent, with a volcanic energy, with the battle-strokes of a true
hero, he had overthrown every obstacle, and hewn a way through every
barrier that impeded the free outgrowth and manifestation of his diviner
self. His “Farewell” is not a mere poem of the imagination. It is a
record of facts. I can clearly perceive, as his spirit has been revealed
to me, that there was a deep significance in his words, when he said,--
“I will sunder, and forever,
Every tie of _human passion_ that can bind my soul to Earth--
Every _slavish_ tie that binds me to the things of little worth.”
As he last appeared to me, he was full of majesty and strength,
self-poised and calm, and it would seem by the expression of his
countenance, radiant with victory, that the reward promised to “him that
overcometh,” had been made his sure possession. Around his brow, as a
spiritual emblem, was an olive-wreath, whose leaves glowed like fire. He
stood upon the side of a mountain, which was white and glittering like
crystal, and the full tide of inspiration to which he gave utterance
could not be comprehended in human speech. That last “Farewell,” as it
found expression through my weak lips, was but the faintest possible
echo of that most musical and majestic lyric which thrilled the
harp-strings of my being. In order to be fully realized and understood,
the soul must be transported to that sphere of spiritual _perceptions_,
where there is no _audible_ “speech nor language,” and where the “voice
is not _heard_.”
Obedient to the call of the Angels, he has “gone up higher” in the ways
of Eternal Progress; and though, because of this change, he may no
longer manifest himself as he _was_, yet doubtless as he _is_, he will
yet be felt as a Presence and a Power in the “Heaven” of many a human
heart. Upon earth he was a meteor light, flashing with a startling
brilliancy across the intellectual firmament; but now he is a star of
ever-increasing magnitude, which has at length gravitated to its own
place among the celestial spheres.
In saying thus much, I cannot so play the coward to my spiritual
convictions as to offer the slightest apology for any ideas I may have
advanced contrary to popular prejudices or time-honored opinions. O,
thoughtful reader! if I have offended thee, say simply that these are
_my_ convictions and not _yours_, and do not fear for the result; for in
whatsoever I purpose or perform, I “can do nothing against the
Truth--only for it.” I do not indulge in the conceit that this little
work has any important mission to perform, or that it will cause any
commotion in the literary world. But I have felt, as one by one these
poems have been wrought out--by general or special inspiration--from my
“Inner Life,” that in this matter I had a work, simple though it might
be, to do, and my soul was sorely “straitened till it was
accomplished.”
As some of these poems, appearing at various times, have been severely
criticized in the past, so I would say now, that if any there should be,
who, through bigotry, or prejudice, or a desire to display their
superior wisdom, should choose to criticize them in their present
form--to such I shall make no answer. But to all those earnest and
inquiring souls, who feel that in such experiences as I have described,
or in the resources from which my soul has drawn its supply, there is
aught that is attractive or desirable to them, I would say, “God speed
you in your search for Truth!” At the same time let me assure you, that
in the depths of your own Inner Life there is a fountain of inspiration
and wisdom, which, if sought aright, will yield you more abundant
satisfaction than any simple cup of the living water which I, or any
other individual, can place to your lips. There are invisible teachers
around you, the hem of whose garments I am unworthy to touch. “The
words that they speak unto you--they are Spirit and they are Life.” “In
order to _know_ more you must _be_ more.” Faith strikes its roots deep
in the spirit, and often Intuition is a safer guide than Reason. When a
man, by constant practice, has so quickened his spiritual perceptions
that he can receive conscious impressions from his invisible attendants,
he will never be without counsellors.
“Let Faith be given
To the still tones that oft our being waken--
They are of Heaven.”
The Spirit-World is not so distant as it seems, and the veil of
Materiality which hides it from our view, by hopeful and untiring
aspiration can be rent in twain. We only need listen earnestly and
attentively, and we shall soon learn to keep step in the grand march of
Life to the music of the upper spheres. As a popular author has
beautifully said, “Silence is vocal, if we listen well.” With a sublime
accord, the great anthem of the Infinite “rolls and resounds” through
the Universe, and whosoever will, can listen to that harmony, till all
special and particular discords shall die out from the “Inner Life,” and
the Heaven of the celestial intelligences shall blend with the “Heaven
within,” in perfect unison!
POEMS
FROM
THE INNER LIFE.