[Illustration: handwritten: Yours truly
Lizzie Doten]
POEMS
OF
PROGRESS.
BY
LIZZIE DOTEN.
“If an offence come out of the Truth, better is it that the
offence come, than the Truth be concealed.” JEROME.
“Stand out of my sunshine.” DIOGENES OF SINOPE.
BOSTON:
WILLIAM WHITE AND COMPANY,
BANNER OF LIGHT OFFICE,
158 WASHINGTON STREET.
NEW YORK AGENTS--THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY,
119 NASSAU STREET.
1871.
Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1871,
BY MISS ELIZABETH DOTEN,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Electrotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry,
No. 19 Spring Lane.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
DECLARATION OF FAITH (PREFATORY). 5
THE CHEMISTRY OF CHARACTER. 11
LET THY KINGDOM COME. 14
THE SPIRIT OF NATURE. 17
MARGERY MILLER. 20
THE LAW OF LIFE. 26
A RESPECTABLE LIE. 33
THE RAINBOW BRIDGE. 38
REST THOU IN PEACE. 42
ANGEL LILY. 44
THE ALL IN ALL. 48
“ECCE HOMO.” 50
PETER MCGUIRE; OR, NATURE AND GRACE. 56
HYMN OF THE ANGELS. 62
GONE HOME. 64
THE CRY OF THE DESOLATE. 66
THE SPIRIT-MOTHER. 69
FACE THE SUNSHINE. 77
HESTER VAUGHN. 83
SONG OF THE SPIRIT CHILDREN. 87
HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP. 90
THE FAMISHED HEART. 92
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. 99
REFORMERS. 102
MR. DE SPLAE. 105
WILL IT PAY? 109
THE LIVING WORD. 114
HYMN TO THE SUN. 119
GREATHEART AND GIANT DESPAIR. 123
“THE ORACLE.” 128
MY ANGEL. 135
THE ANGEL OF HEALING. 139
TRUTH TRIUMPHANT. 143
GOOD IN ALL. 147
JOHN ENDICOTT. 153
THE TRIUMPH OF FREEDOM. 157
OUR SOLDIERS’ GRAVES. 164
OUTWARD BOUND. 166
THE WANDERER’S WELCOME HOME. 170
LABOR AND WAIT. 174
FRAE RHYMING ROBIN. 176
AN ELEGY ON THE DEVIL. 181
FRATERNITY. 185
OWEENA. 190
GONE IS GONE, AND DEAD IS DEAD. 195
THE SPIRIT TEACHER. 198
LITTLE NELL. 203
THE SOUL’S DESTINY. 206
GUARDIAN ANGELS. 208
NEARER TO THEE. 211
THE SACRAMENT. 213
THE GOOD TIME NOW. 217
LIFE’S MYSTERIES. 221
A WOODLAND IDYL. 225
JUBILATE. 229
THE DIVINE IDEA. 231
THE PYRAMIDS. 235
THE INNER MYSTERY. 237
DECLARATION OF FAITH.
Doubtless many who take up this book, and glance carelessly at its
pages, will exclaim, “What! more Spiritualism!” To which remark I
answer, yes, more Spiritualism, an unequivocal, undisguised, positive
Spiritualism--confirmed by many years of careful observation, study, and
experience, and of which this book is the legitimate outgrowth. Eight
years have elapsed since my first volume--“Poems from the Inner
Life”--was given to the world (to the Preface of which I now refer for
any explanation concerning my mediumship). During that interval of time,
the ranks of the believers in Spiritualism have steadily increased in
numbers, its phenomena, presenting an array of well-established facts,
have challenged the investigation of some of the first scientific minds
of the age, and its philosophy has done more towards liberating the
human mind from the thraldom of old superstitions and creeds than any
other form of faith which has arisen for centuries. But as yet, it has
not secured that prestige of popularity and respectability which the
combined influence of age, wealth, and organized action ever afforded.
Consequently, those who are “named by its name” must be prepared to meet
the anathemas of religious bigots--the lofty scorn of those who are wise
in their own conceit--the scurrilous attacks of those who would divert
attention from their own infamy and the petty irritations of a numerous
pack who follow at the heels of every new movement, and ever distinguish
themselves by noise rather than by knowledge. As a participant in this
great movement, I have found such attacks to be helps rather than
hinderances to my progress, inasmuch as I have been enabled to define my
own positive and affirmative position more clearly from the negations of
the opposers of Spiritualism.
We are told that “it is not a Religion.” But after a long and careful
study of the past and present, I have yet to find any phase of faith,
which, in its very inception has commenced so directly at the root of
all necessary reform, viz., the purification and harmonious development
of the human body. This primary and fundamental truth has been taken as
a starting-point--it has been enunciated from the spirit world--repeated
by the inspirational speakers--has been interwoven with all the
spiritualistic literature, and has found a practical application in the
Children’s Lyceums. The religion that teaches, “Take care of the soul,
and let the body take care of itself,” will inevitably defeat its own
purposes, and has already been taught long enough for us to know that it
is a failure. No other form of faith ever brought the spiritual world so
near, _as to banish its supernatural character, and place it within the
province of natural law_. No other form of faith has _illustrated_ the
fact _so clearly_, that just as we go out of this world, so do we enter
upon the next, thereby presenting a more rational incentive to endeavor,
than the rewards of Heaven or the punishments of Hell; and no other from
of faith has so effectually dissipated the idea of an inane and
purposeless life in the future, and given to the angels a more exalted
employment than “loafing around the throne.” It also teaches that
mediumship, under proper circumstances, is a _healthy, harmonious, and
normal development of human nature_, and that communion with the
spiritual world is not interdicted, and no more impossible than any
other attainment that lies in the direct line of natural law, human
progress, and scientific investigation. This to me, and to those who
have accepted Spiritualism thoughtfully and sincerely, makes it _a
religion indeed_, and the positive assertions of any number of
intellectual or religious “authorities” to the contrary cannot make it
otherwise.
We have been told again and again, that “Spiritualism is
Supernaturalism,” that we believe in miracles, which are contrary to the
“methods” of God’s government. We have denied this repeatedly, assuming
that we ourselves had the best right to say what we did believe; but our
denial has not been accepted, and the reason is obvious. Any number of
scholastic discourses, elaborately written essays, and eloquent appeals
to popular prejudice, would lose their pith and marrow, and be found
wanting, if this false predicate, this fabricated nucleus for their
logic should be disallowed.
Again, we are told that “Spiritualism is not Science;” to which we
reply, that Spiritualism has presented facts and phenomena which the
later discoveries in Science are tending both to explain and
substantiate. It has been demonstrated that it is not the eye that sees,
the ear that hears, or the nerves that feel, but each of these avenues
of sense serves to convey the vibrations of the surrounding “ether” to
the central consciousness, which alone is possessed of the power of
perception. Since this is so, who shall dare place a limit to the
possibilities of that consciousness, of which so little is definitely
known? Or why should any man prescribe, as a standard for all others,
the limitations of his own feeble consciousness. A modern reasoner tells
us that “if the bodily ear receives vibrations from one atmosphere, it
_cannot_ receive them from another, and no fiction of an inner ear can
give genuineness to voices and whispers of a spiritual tongue.” Since,
however, it is not the outer ear, but the inner consciousness, that
hears, a quickening of its perceptions will allow it to catch the
vibrations from another atmosphere, and Spiritualism demonstrates, by
indisputable facts, that this is so. Also, that this is not an
_abnormal_ condition, but _perfectly legitimate_ to certain states of
the inner consciousness.
The revelations of the spectroscope, and the investigations of some of
the greatest scientific minds of the present day, have determined the
existence of a higher scale of vibrations than those which fall within
the ordinary range of human vision. All the objects and forms of life
comprehended in that scale, although so closely blended and interwoven
with the vibrations of our own plane of existence, are lost to our dull
perceptions, unless, through some physical or mental condition, there is
a quickening of our inner consciousness. When this comes, as it has
again and again to many, we have revelations from the “_spirit world_,”
which is, after all, but a finer _material_ world, as real, as
substantial, as objective, and as directly within the province of
universal law, as that which we now inhabit. That we should be made
sensibly aware of this higher life, under certain legitimate conditions,
is perfectly _natural_. Indeed, it would be strange, with the uniformity
of succession and development which pervades all things, if we were not.
It is not a world that is _possible_, but _actual_, not one that _might_
be, but _is_.
In this matter, intelligent Spiritualists range themselves side by side
with those of whom Professor Tyndall has said, “You never hear the
really philosophical defenders of the doctrine of uniformity speaking of
_impossibilities_ in nature. They best know that questions offer
themselves to thought, which Science, as now prosecuted, has not even
the tendency to solve. They keep such questions open, _and will not
tolerate any unlawful limitations of the horizon of their souls_.”
However weak and imperfect our spiritual vision may be at present, we
shall use each and every opportunity of obtaining all the information
that is possible, either from this world or the next. The report of the
committee chosen by the London Dialectical Society, to investigate the
subject of Spiritualism, “bears strong testimony in favor of the reality
of the manifestations,” and is a step in the right direction. All we ask
of our opponents, is fair treatment and an unprejudiced consideration of
the facts and phenomena which Spiritualism presents. We do not fear as
to the result.
But the objection which is most frequently urged against Spiritualism
is, that “it is immoral in its tendencies.” In my anxiety to prove all
things, I have also taken this matter into careful consideration, and
diligently compared the annals of crime in the so-called Christian
church with those of Spiritualism. For several years I have collected
the items from the daily newspapers, that I might have them for future
reference, and in due time come to a just and impartial conclusion. As
I write, that record of ministerial delinquency, ecclesiastical
abominations, and human frailty, lies before me. Where I have found one
spiritual sheep that has gone astray, I have found ninety and nine of
the Shepherds in Israel in great need of repentance. Let the church
cleanse her own Augean stables before she utters one word in relation to
the immoralities of Spiritualism. Casting stones and calling hard names
will not profit either party. It is neither Christianity nor
Spiritualism that is responsible for these immoralities, but _poor human
nature_. The remedy lies not in creeds or forms of faith, but in the
growth of Truth in the Understanding, and Love in the heart. Not as a
Spiritualist, but as a child of humanity, do I hope that the entire
world may yet have a moral standard, harmonious with the laws of God and
Nature, and consistent with the highest good of the individual and
society.
Having, from inclination and a sense of duty to my kindred in the faith,
pursued the subject thus far, the “Spirit moves me” to present, in
conclusion, a few quotations which require neither comment nor
explanation.
“If we are _wise_ we shall sit down upon the brink and content
ourselves with saying what the spiritual world _is not_ and _cannot
be._ * * The soul _must_ be entirely ignorant of the second body
until it has ceased to use the first. * * The new organs, may be,
all correspond in intention and effect to the present ones; but we
say that _they do not yet exist._ _They cannot exist_; the ground
is pre-occupied.”
_John Weiss_,
Unitarian Monthly Journal, May, 1866.
“Moreover, the satellites of Jupiter are invisible to the naked
eye, and therefore can exercise no influence over the Earth, and
therefore would be useless, and therefore _do not exist_.”
_Francesco Sizzi_, Times of Galileo.
“If the Spiritualists would secure the favor of _sensible people_
they must let them see that they are not at war with good sense. *
* It were better that very sacred and dear beliefs should go, than
that this enemy of all rational belief should remain. Let us prefer
to have _no_ other world, than to have another world full of
teasing, troublesome, meddlesome beings, who interfere with the
rational order of the world we dwell in.”
_O. B. Frothingham_,
“The Index,” July 8, 1871.
“If the new planets were acknowledged, what a chaos would ensue!” *
* “I will never concede his four new planets to that Italian,
though I die for it.”
_Martin Horky_, Times of Galileo.
“O my beloved Kepler! How I wish we could have one good laugh
together! Here, at Padua, is the principal Professor of Philosophy,
whom I have repeatedly and urgently requested to look at the moon
and planets through my telescope, which he pertinaciously refuses
to do! Why, my dear Kepler, are you not here? What shouts of
laughter we should have at _all this solemn folly_!”
_Letter from Galileo to John Kepler._
POEMS OF PROGRESS.
THE CHEMISTRY OF CHARACTER.
JOHN, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,
God in his wisdom created them all.
John was a statesman, and Peter a slave,
Robert a preacher, and Paul--was a knave.
Evil or good as the case might be,
White, or colored, or bond, or free--
John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,
God in his wisdom created them all.
Out of earth’s elements, mingled with flame,
Out of life’s compounds of glory and shame,
Fashioned and shaped by no will of their own,
And helplessly into life’s history thrown;
Born by the law that compels men to be,
Born to conditions they could not foresee,
John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,
God in his wisdom created them all.
John was the head and the heart of his State,
Was trusted and honored, was noble and great.
Peter was made ’neath life’s burdens to groan,
And never once dreamed that his soul was his own.
Robert great glory and honor received,
For zealously preaching what no one believed;
While Paul, of the pleasures of sin took his fill,
And gave up his life to the service of ill.
It chanced that these men, in their passing away
From earth and its conflicts, all died the same day.
John was mourned through the length and the breadth of the land--
Peter fell ’neath the lash in a merciless hand--
Robert died with the praise of the Lord on his tongue--
While Paul was convicted of murder, and hung.
John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,
The purpose of life was fulfilled in them all.
Men said of the Statesman--“How noble and brave!”
But of Peter, alas!--“he was only a Slave.”
Of Robert--“’Tis well with his soul--it is well;”
While Paul they consigned to the torments of hell.
Born by one law through all Nature the same,
_What_ made them differ? and _who_ was to blame?
John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,
God in his wisdom created them all.
Out in that region of infinite light,
Where the soul of the black man is pure as the white--
Out where the spirit, through sorrow made wise,
No longer resorts to deception and lies--
Out where the flesh can no longer control
The freedom and faith of the God-given soul--
Who shall determine what change may befall
John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul?
John may in wisdom and goodness increase--
Peter rejoice in an infinite peace--
Robert may learn that the truths of the Lord
Are more in the spirit, and less in the word--
And Paul may be blest with a holier birth
Than the passions of man had allowed him on earth.
John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,
God in his wisdom will care for them all.
LET THY KINGDOM COME.
THE peaceful night, “the stilly night,”
Came down on wings of purple gloom,
And with her eyes of starry light,
Looked through the darkness of my room;
Peace was the pillow for my head,
While angels watched around my bed.
Freed from a weight of cumbering care,
My earnest spirit seemed to rise,
And on the wings of faith and prayer,
I sought the gates of Paradise;
Like priceless pearls I saw them gleam,
As in the Revelator’s dream.
O, holy, holy was the song
Of blessed spirits echoing thence,
So soft and clear it swept along,
It ravished all my soul and sense;
Close to those gates of light I crept,
And like a homeless orphan wept.
The white-robed angels went and came--
The white-robed angels saw me there--
And one, in our dear Father’s name,
Came at my spirit’s voiceless prayer.
“Dear child,” he said, “why dost thou wait
With weeping at the heavenly gate?”
“O, weary are my feet,” I cried,
“With wandering o’er the earthly way;
Lo, all my hopes hang crucified,
And all my idols turn to clay;
Far distant now the Father seems,
And heaven comes only in my dreams.”
He laid his hand upon my head,
And tenderly the angel smiled.
“Thy Father knows thy need,” he said,
“And he will aid his suffering child.
Return unto thine earthly home--
His kingdom yet shall surely come.”
Obedient at the word I turned,
And sought mine earthly home once more,
While all my soul within me burned,
With joy I never knew before;
For that blest vision of the night
Had filled me with celestial light.
Still o’er my life its glories stream,
The solace of my lonely hours,
Fair as the sunset’s golden gleam,
And lovely as the bloom of flowers;
A sweet assurance, calm and deep,
Which treasured in my soul I keep.
Henceforth I wait with anxious eyes,
Until the shadows flee away,
To see the morning star arise,
Which ushers in that glorious day.
Be patient, O my heart! be still
Till time the promise shall fulfill.
THE SPIRIT OF NATURE.
“The bond which unites the human to the divine is Love, and Love is
the longing of the Soul for Beauty; the inextinguishable desire
which like feels for like, which the divinity within us feels for
the divinity revealed to us in Beauty. Beauty is Truth.”--PLATO.
I HAVE come from the heart of all natural things,
Whose life from the Soul of the Beautiful springs;
You shall hear the sweet waving of corn in my voice,
And the musical whisper of leaves that rejoice,
For my lips have been touched by the spirit of prayer,
Which lingers unseen in the soft summer air;
And the smile of the sunshine that brightens the skies,
Hath left a glad ray of its light in my eyes.
On the sea-beaten shore--’mid the dwellings of men--
In the field, or the forest, or wild mountain glen;
Wherever the grass or a daisy could spring,
Or the musical laughter of childhood could ring;
Wherever a swallow could build ’neath the eaves,
Or a squirrel could hide in his covert of leaves,
I have felt the sweet presence, and heard the low call,
Of the Spirit of Nature, which quickens us all.
Grown weary and worn with the conflict of creeds,
I had sought a new faith for the soul with its needs,
When the love of the Beautiful guided my feet
Through a leafy arcade to a sylvan retreat,
Where the oriole sung in the branches above,
And the wild roses burned with their blushes of love,
And the purple-fringed aster, and bright golden-*rod,
Like jewels of beauty adorned the green sod.
O, how blesséd to feel from the care-laden heart
All the sorrows and woes that oppressed it depart,
And to lay the tired head, with its achings, to rest
On the heart of all others that loves it the best;
O, thus is it ever, when, wearied, we yearn
To the bosom of Nature and Truth to return,
And life blossoms forth into beauty anew,
As we learn to repose in the Simple and True.
No longer with self or with Nature at strife,
The soul feels the presence of Infinite Life;
And the voice of a child, or the hum of a bee--
The somnolent roll of the deep-heaving sea--
The mountains uprising in grandeur and might--
The stars that look forth from the depths of the night--
All speak in one language, persuasive and clear,
To him who in spirit is waiting to hear.
There is something in Nature beyond our control,
That is tenderly winning the love of each soul;
We shall linger no longer in darkness and doubt,
When the Beauty within meets the Beauty without.
Sweet Spirit of Nature! wherever thou art,
O, fold us like children, close, close to thy heart;
Till we learn that thy bosom is Truth’s hallowed shrine,
And the Soul of the Beautiful is--the Divine.
MARGERY MILLER.
OLD Margery Miller sat alone,
One Christmas eve, by her poor hearthstone,
Where dimly the fading firelight shone.
Her brow was furrowed with signs of care,
Her lips moved gently, as if in prayer--
For O, life’s burden was hard to bear.
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
Her friends, like the birds of summer had flown.
Full eighty summers had swiftly sped,
Full eighty winters their snows had shed,
With silver-sheen, on her aged head.
One by one had her loved ones died--
One by one had they left her side--
Fading like flowers in their summer pride.
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
Had God forgotten _she_ was his own?
No castle was hers with a spacious lawn;
Her poor old hut was the proud man’s scorn;
Yet Margery Miller was nobly born.
A brother she had, who once wore a crown,
Whose deeds of greatness and high renown
From age to age had been handed down.
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
Where was her kingdom, her crown or throne?
Margery Miller, a child of God,
Meekly and bravely life’s path had trod,
Nor deemed affliction a “chastening rod.”
Her brother, Jesus, who went before,
A crown of thorns in his meekness wore,
And what, poor soul! could _she_ hope for more?
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
Strange that her heart had not turned to stone!
Ay, there she sat, on that Christmas eve,
Seeking some dream of the past to weave,
Patiently striving not to grieve.
O, for those long, long eighty years,
How had she struggled with doubts and fears,
Shedding in secret unnumbered tears!
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
How _could_ she stifle her sad heart’s moan?
Soft on her ear fell the Christmas chimes,
Bringing the thought of the dear old times,
Like birds that sing of far distant climes.
_Then_ swelled the flood of her pent-up grief--
Swayed like a reed in the tempest brief,
Her bowed form shook like an aspen leaf.
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
How heavy the burden of life had grown!
“O God!” she cried, “I am lonely here,
Bereft of all that my heart holds dear;
Yet Thou dost never refuse to hear.
“O, if the dead were allowed to speak!
Could I only look on their faces meek,
How it would strengthen my heart so weak!”
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
What was that light which around her shone?
Dim on the hearth burned the embers red,
Yet soft and clear, on her silvered head,
A light like the sunset glow was shed.
Bright blossoms fell on the cottage floor,
“Mother” was whispered, as oft before,
And long-lost faces gleamed forth once more.
Poor old Margery Miller!
No longer alone,
Unsought, unknown,
How light the burden of life had grown!
She lifted her withered hands on high,
And uttered the eager, earnest cry,
“God of all mercy! now let me die.
“Beautiful Angels, fair and bright,
Holding the _hem_ of your garments white,
Let me go forth to the world of light.”
Poor old Margery Miller!
So earnest grown!
Was she left alone?
His humble child did the Lord disown?
O, sweet was the sound of the Christmas bell,
As its musical changes rose and fell,
With a low refrain or a solemn swell.
But sweeter by far was the blesséd strain,
That soothed old Margery Miller’s pain,
And gave her comfort and peace again.
Poor old Margery Miller!
In silence alone,
Her faith had grown;
And now the blossom had brightly blown.
Out of the glory that burned like flame,
Calmly a great white angel came--
Softly he whispered her humble name.
“Child of the highest,” he gently said,
“Thy toils are ended, thy tears are shed,
And life immortal now crowns thy head.”
Poor old Margery Miller!
No longer alone,
Unsought, unknown,
God _had not_ forgotten she was his own.
A change o’er her pallid features passed;
She felt that her feet were nearing fast
The land of safety and peace, at last.
She faintly murmured, “God’s name be blest!”
And folding her hands on her dying breast,
She calmly sank to her dreamless rest.
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Without one moan,
Her patient spirit at length had flown.
Next morning a stranger found her there,
Her pale hands folded as if in prayer,
Sitting so still in her old arm-chair.
He spoke--but she answered not again,
For, far away from all earthly pain,
Her voice was singing a joyful strain.
Poor old Margery Miller!
Her spirit had flown
To the world unknown,
Where true hearts _never_ can be alone.
THE LAW OF LIFE.
Deeply musing
On the many mysteries of life;
Half excusing
All man’s seeming failures in the strife;
Through the city
Did I take my lonely way at night;
Filled with pity
For the miseries that met my sight,
In the faces, sickly, sad and sunken,
In the faces, meager, mean and shrunken,
Wanton, leering, passionate and drunken,
Which I saw that night,
Passing through the city--
Saw them by the street-lamps’ changing light.
Burning brightly,
Looked the watching stars from heaven above;
As if lightly
They beheld these wrecks of human love.
“O, how distant,”
Said I, “are they from this earth apart!
How resistant
To the woes that rend the human heart!
Countless worlds! your radiant courses rounding,
With your light the depth of distance sounding,
Is there not some fount of love abounding?
O, thou starlit night
Brooding o’er the city!
Would that truth might as thy stars shine bright.”
Very lightly
Was a woman’s hand laid on my arm.
Pressing slightly--
And a voice said--striving to be calm--
“I am dying,
Slowly dying for the want of love;
Vainly trying
To believe there is a God above.
For I feel that I am sinking slowly,
Losing daily, faith and patience lowly,
Doomed to ways of sin and deeds unholy--
All the weary night,
Through this cruel city
Do I wander till the morning light.
“Hear me kindly,
For I am not what I would have been,
If most blindly
I had not been tempted unto sin.
I am lonely,
And I long to shriek in anguish wild,
O, if only
I could be once more a little child!
See! my eyes are weary-worn with weeping;
Sorrow’s tide across my soul is sweeping;
God no longer holds me in his keeping--
I have prayed to-night,
Wandering through the city,
That I might not see the morning light.”
Breathless, gazing
On her pallid and impassioned face,
How amazing
Was the likeness that I there could trace!
“Sister!” “Brother!”
From our lips as by one impulse broke.
Not another
Word, then, for an instant brief we spoke.
But the sweet and tender recollection
Of our childhood, with its fond affection,
And at last, the broken, lost connection,
Came afresh that night,
Standing in the city
Underneath the street-lamps’ changing light.
Pale and slender,
Like a lily did she bow her head.
Low and tender
Was the earnest tone in which she said--
“O, my brother!
Tell me of our father.”--“He is dead.”
“And our mother?”
“And she, also, rests in peace,” I said.
Only to my grievous words replying,
By a long-drawn, deep and painful sighing,
Sinking downward, as if crushed and dying,
Did she seem that night,
Standing in the city
Underneath the street-lamps’ changing light.
Wherefore should I
Thrust her from my guilty heart away?
Ah, how could I!
Whatsoe’er the _righteous_ world might say--
She, my sister,
One who shared in mine own life a part--
Nay, I kissed her,
And upraised her to a brother’s heart.
And I said, “Henceforth we will not sever,
But with faith and patience failing never,
We will work for truth and right forever.
Ministers of light,
Watching o’er the city!
Guide! O, guide our erring feet aright!”
Gently o’er us
Came a breath of warm and balmy air,
And before us
Stood a man with silvery, flowing hair.
How appearing
From the murky gloom that round us fell,
Mild and cheering
In his presence, I could never tell.
But I say with solemn asservation,
That it was no fanciful creation,
Bearing to this life no true relation,
Which we saw that night,
Standing in the city,
Underneath the street-lamps’ changing light.
“Children!” said he,
“One of life’s great lessons you are taught;
Be then ready
To apply the teaching as you ought.
_All_ are brothers--
_All_ are sisters in this lower life.
Many others
Make sad failures in the weary strife;
But each failure is a grand expression
Of the law which underlies progression,
Which will raise the soul above transgression.
Yea, this very night,
All throughout this city,
Every soul is striving toward the light.”
“Bruised and broken,
Many hearts in patient sorrow wait,
To hear spoken
Words of love, which often come too late.
Lift their crosses,
And their sins--the heaviest load of all--
Bear their losses,
And be patient with them when they fall.”
Then he vanished, as the shadows parted,
Leaving us alone, but hopeful hearted,
Gazing into space where he departed
From our wondering sight,
In that mazy city--
Vanished in the shadows of the night.
Sacred presence!
Dwelling just beyond our mortal sense,
Through thine essence,
Fill our beings with a life intense.
By creation
Man fulfills a destiny sublime,
And salvation
Comes to each in its appointed time.
In that region of celestial splendor,
Where the angel-faces look so tender,
Human weakness needeth no defender.
In the perfect light
Of the heavenly city,
Souls can read the law of life aright.
A RESPECTABLE LIE.
“A respectable lie, sir! Pray what do you mean?
Why the term in _itself_ is a plain contradiction.
A lie is a _lie_, and deserves no respect,
But merciless judgment, and speedy conviction.
It springs from corruption, is servile and mean,
An evil conception, a coward’s invention,
And whether direct, or but simply implied,
Has naught but deceit for its end and intention.”
Ah, yes! very well! So _good morals_ would teach;
But _facts_ are the _most_ stubborn things in existence,
And _they_ tend to show that _great_ lies win respect,
And hold their position with wondrous persistence.
The _small_ lies, the _white_ lies, the lies _feebly told_,
The world will condemn both in spirit and letter;
But the _great, bloated_ lies will be held in respect,
And the _larger_ and _older_ a lie is, the better.
A respectable lie, from a _popular_ man,
On a _popular_ theme, never taxes endurance;
And the pure, golden coin of _un_popular _truth_,
Is often _refused_ for the _brass of assurance_.
You may dare all the laws of the land to defy,
And bear to the truth the most shameless relation,
But never attack _a respectable lie_,
If you value a name, or a good reputation.
A lie well established, and hoary with age,
Resists the assaults of the boldest seceder;
While he is accounted the greatest of saints,
Who silences reason and follows the leader.
Whenever a mortal has _dared_ to be wise,
And seize upon Truth, as the soul’s “Magna Charta,”
He always has won from the lovers of lies,
The name of a fool, or the fate of a martyr.
There are popular lies, and political lies,
And “lies that stick fast between buying and selling,”
And lies of politeness--conventional lies--
(Which scarcely are reckoned as such in the telling.)
There are lies of sheer malice, and slanderous lies,
From those who delight to peck filth like a pigeon;
But the _oldest_ and far _most respectable_ lies,
Are those that are told in the name of Religion.
Theology sits like a tyrant enthroned,
A system _per se_ with a fixed nomenclature,
Derived from strange doctrines, and dogmas, and creeds,
At war with man’s reason, with God and with Nature;
And he who subscribes to the popular faith,
Never questions the fact of divine inspiration,
But holds to the Bible as absolute truth,
From Genesis through to St. John’s Revelation.
We mock at the Catholic bigots at Rome,
Who strive with their dogmas man’s reason to fetter;
But we turn to the Protestant bigots at home,
And we find that their dogmas are scarce a whit better.
We are called to believe in the wrath of the Lord--
In endless damnation, and torments infernal;
While around and above us, the Infinite Truth,
Scarce heeded or heard, speaks sublime and eternal.
It is sad--but the day-star is shining on high,
And Science comes in with her conquering legions;
And ev’ry respectable, time-honored lie,
Will fly from her face to the mythical regions.
The soul shall no longer with terror behold
The red waves of wrath that leap up to engulf her,
For Science ignores the existence of hell,
And chemistry finds better uses for sulphur.
We may dare to repose in the beautiful faith,
That an Infinite Life is the source of all being;
And though we must strive with delusion and Death,
We can trust to a love and a wisdom all-*seeing;
We may dare in the strength of the soul to arise,
And walk where our feet shall not stumble or falter;
And, freed from the bondage of time-honored lies,
To lay all we have on the Truth’s sacred altar.
THE RAINBOW BRIDGE.
’Twas a faith that was held by the Northmen bold,
In the ages long, long ago,
That the river of death, so dark and cold,
Was spanned by a radiant bow;
A rainbow bridge to the blest abode
Of the strong Gods--free from ill,
Where the beautiful Urda fountain flowed,
Near the ash tree Igdrasill.
They held that when, in life’s weary march,
They should come to that river wide,
They would set their feet on the shining arch,
And would pass to the other side.
And they said that the Gods and the Heroes crossed
That bridge from the world of light,
To strengthen the Soul when its hope seemed lost,
In the conflict for the right.
O, beautiful faith of the grand old past!
So simple, yet so sublime,
A light from that rainbow bridge is cast
Far down o’er the tide of time.
We raise our eyes, and we see above,
The souls in their homeward march;
They wave their hands and they smile in love,
From the height of the rainbow arch.
We know they will drink from the fountain pure
That springs by the Tree of Life,
We know that their spirits will rest secure
From the tempests of human strife;
So we fold our hands, and we close our eyes,
And we strive to forget our pain,
Lest the weak and the selfish wish should rise,
To ask for them back again.
The swelling tide of our grief we stay,
While our warm hearts fondly yearn,
And we ask if over that shining way
They shall nevermore return.
O, we oft forget that our lonely hours
Are known to the souls we love,
And they strew the path of our life with flowers,
From that rainbow arch above.
We hear them call, and their voices sweet
Float down from that bridge of light,
Where the gold and crimson and azure meet,
And mingle their glories bright.
We hear them call, and the soul replies,
From the depths of the life below,
And we strive on the wings of faith to rise
To the height of that radiant bow.
Like the crystal ladder that Jacob saw,
Is that beautiful vision given,
The weary pilgrims of earth to draw
To the life of their native heaven.
For ’tis better that souls should upward tend,
And strive for the victor’s crown,
Than to ask the angels their help to lend,
And come to man’s weakness down.
That rainbow bridge in the crystal dome,
O’er a swiftly flowing tide,
Is the shining way to the spirit home,
That lies on the other side.
To man is the tempest cloud below,
And the storm wind’s fatal breath,
But for those who cross o’er that shining bow,
There is no more pain nor death.
O, fair and bright does that archway stand,
Through the silent lapse of years,
Fashioned and reared by no human hand,
From the sunshine of love and tears.
Sweet spirits, our footsteps are nearing fast
The light of the shining shore;
We shall cross that rainbow bridge at last,
And greet you in joy once more.
REST THOU IN PEACE.
“And the token that the angel gave her, that he was a true
messenger, was an arrow, with a point sharpened with Love, let
easily into her heart, which by degrees wrought so effectually with
her, that at the time appointed she must be gone.”
PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.
REST thou in peace! Beneath the sheltering sod
There is a lowly door, a narrow way,
That leadeth to the Paradise of God;
There, weary pilgrim, let thy wanderings stay.
Rest thou in peace! We would not call thee back
To know the grief that comes with riper years,
To tread in sorrow all Life’s thorny track,
And drain with us the bitter cup of tears.
Rest thou in peace! With chastened hearts we bow,
And pour for thee a low and solemn strain;
Thy voice shall chant the hymns of Zion now,
But it shall mingle not with ours again.
Rest thou in peace! Not in the silent grave--
Thy spirit heard the summons from above,
And blessed the token that the angel gave--
An arrow, sharpened--but with tenderest love.
Rest thou in peace! With blessings on thy head,
Pass to the land where sinless spirits dwell--
Gone, but not lost!--We will not call thee _dead_--
The angels claimed thee! Dear one--Fare-thee-well.
ANGEL LILY.
OF all the flowers that greet the light,
Or open ’neath the summer’s sun,
With fragrance sweet, and beauty bright,
The Lily is the fairest one,
And in its incense-cup there lies
A perfume, as from Paradise.
O, once there lived a fair, sweet child,
And Lily was her gentle name;
As beautiful and meekly mild,
As if from Heaven’s pure life she came--
A breathing psalm, a living prayer,
To make men think of worlds more fair.
O, there was sunshine in her smile,
And music in her dancing feet,
And every tender, artless wile,
Made her dear presence seem more sweet;
But ever in her childish play,
A strange, unfathomed mystery lay.
Her playmates--well, we could not see
That which our darling Lily saw--
But often in her childish glee,
She filled our loving hearts with awe,
When, pointing to the viewless air,
She told us of the Angels there.
“O, very beautiful!” she said,
“And very gentle are they all;
At night they watch around my bed,
And always answer to my call.
I asked to go with them one day,
But a tall angel told me nay.”
Yes--the “tall Angel” told her nay,
But it was only for a time;
We knew our Lily could not stay
Long in this uncongenial clime.
Into their home of love and light
The Angels led her from our sight.
They led her from the earth away,
Into the blesséd “summer-land,”
Leaving to us her form of clay,
With budding lilies in the hand;
An emblem of her life, to be
Unfolded in Eternity.
O, though there falls a gloom like night
From Sorrow’s overshadowing wing,
How often does returning light
A ray of heavenly brightness bring,
And problems that were dark before
Can vex the soul with doubt no more.
Beneath that heavy cloud we stood,
Through which no ray of gladness stole,
But well we knew that Sorrow’s flood
Would cleanse and purify the soul;
And when its ministry should cease,
Our lives would blossom fair with peace.
One evening, when the summer moon
With silver radiance filled the sky,
And through the fragrant flowers of June
The balmy breeze sighed dreamily,
With spirits calm and reconciled,
We talked of our dear Angel child.
We spoke of her we loved so well,
As one who only went before--
When lo! just where the moonlight fell
With mellow lustre on the floor,
We saw our own sweet darling stand,
With half-blown lilies in her hand.
She seemed more beautiful and fair
Than when a simple child of earth;
The golden glory in her hair
Betokened her celestial birth;
But as she sweetly looked and smiled,
We knew she was our own dear child.
O, strange to say! we did not start,
We did not even wildly weep,
For each had schooled the wayward heart
The law of perfect peace to keep--
And deep as Love’s unfathomed sea
Had been our faith that _this would be_.
O, shall we tell those moments o’er--
And all her words of love repeat--
And say how, through Time’s open door
She glided in with noiseless feet?
Nay, rather let us purely hold
Such things too sacred to be told.
Enough to say we wait our time,
With heaven’s own sunshine in the heart,
Rejoicing in the faith sublime,
That those who love _can never part_,
And wheresoe’er the soul may dwell,
That God will order all things well.
THE ALL IN ALL.
HOW beautiful the roses bloom
Around the portals of the tomb!
How fair the meek white lilies grow
From elements of death below!
How tender and serenely bright
The stars light up the depths of night!
Thus beauty unto ruin clings,
And light from deepest darkness springs;
The Soul its noblest strength must gain
Through ministries of grief and pain;
Great victories only come through strife,
And death is but the gate of life.
The ocean waves that darkly flow,
Sweep over priceless pearls below;
The tempest cloud, when wild winds rest,
Builds up the rainbow on its breast,
And truths, unseen when all is bright,
Shine like the stars in sorrow’s night.
O Thou, in whom the vine bears fruit!
In whom the violets take their root,
For Thee the summer roses blow;
For Thee the fair white lilies grow;
And from Thine all-sustaining heart
The Soul’s immortal currents start.
O, when the circle, made complete,
Shall in thy boundless being meet,
We feel, we know, that we shall be
Made perfect in our love to Thee;
That good will triumph in that hour,
And weakness be exchanged for power.
“ECCE HOMO.”
“When the Son of Man cometh, shall he find faith in the earth?”
LUKE xviii. 8.
The merry Christmas time,
With song and silvery chime,
Had come at last;
And brightly glowed each hearth,
While winter, o’er the earth,
Its snows had cast.
High in the old cathedral tower,
The ponderous bell majestic swung,
And with its voice of solemn power
A summons to the people rung.
Then, forth from lowly walls,
And proud, ancestral halls,
Came rich and poor,
And faces wreathed with smiles
Thronged the cathedral aisles
As ne’er before.
Rich silks trailed o’er the marble pave,
And costly jewels glittered bright,
For groined arch and spacious nave
Were radiant with excess of light.
The deep-toned organ’s swell
Like billows rose and fell,
In floods of sound;
And the “Te Deum” rung,
As if by angels sung,
In space profound.
Forth the majestic anthem rolled
In harmony complete, and then
Pealed forth the angels’ song of old,
Of “peace on earth, good will to men.”
As the full chorus ceased,
Up rose the white-robed priest,
With solemn air;
With hands toward heaven outspread,
He bowed his stately head
In formal prayer.
Then, like some breathless, holy spell,
Upon the hushed and reverent crowd,
A deep, impressive silence fell,
And hands were clasped, and heads were bowed.
“Saviour of All!” he cried,
“Thou who wast crucified
For sinful man!
We worship at thy feet,
For thou hast made complete
Salvation’s plan.
Come to thy people, Lord, once more,
And let the nations hear again
The song the angels sung of yore,
Of ‘peace on earth, good will to men.’”
As if his prayer was heard,
A sudden trembling stirred
The walls around.
The doors, wide open flung,
On ponderous hinges swung,
With solemn sound.
And then, straight up the foot-worn aisle,
A strange procession made its way,
In garments coarse, of simplest style,
A strange, incongruous array.
The first, most rudely clad,
A leathern girdle had
About him bound.
The next, in humblest guise,
Raised not his mournful eyes
From off the ground.
And next to these the dusky browed,
And others, flushed with sin and shame,
And women, with their faces bowed
In deep contrition, slowly came.
No voice was heard, or sound,
From the vast concourse round,
Outspreading wide.
But onward still they passed,
Until they gained at last
The altar side.
Then said the lowly one, “O ye!
Who celebrate a Saviour’s birth,
Should he return again, would he
Find faith among the sons of earth?”
Quick, with an angry frown,
The haughty priest looked down
Upon the crowd.
“Who are ye, that ye dare
Invade this house of prayer?”
He cried aloud.
“This temple, sacred to the Lord,
Not thus shall be profaned by you:
Your deeds with his do not accord--
Begone! Begone, ye vagrant crew!”
The lowly one replied,
“These, standing by my side,
Came at my call;
Nor need they have one fear,
With me to enter here--
God loves them all.
Thou hypocrite! thou dost reject
_Me_, through thy most _unchristian creed_,
And making truth of none effect,
Thou dost dishonor me indeed.”
Around the stranger’s head
A radiant halo spread
Its glories bright;
His meek and tender face
Beamed with transcendent grace,
And heavenly light.
There, mighty in his power for good,
So gentle and divinely sweet,
The “Christus Consolator” stood,
With weeping sinners at his feet.
“We must go hence,” he said,
“To find the living bread.
Come, follow me!
My Father’s house above
Is full of light and love,
And all is free.”
High in the old cathedral tower,
The brazen bell majestic swung,
As if some strange, mysterious power
To sudden speech had moved its tongue.
O Christ! thou friend of men!
When thou shalt come again,
Through Truth’s new birth,
May all the fruits of peace
Be found in rich increase
Upon the earth.
Then shall the song of sweet accord,
Sung by the heavenly hosts of yore,
To hail the coming of their Lord,
Sound through the ages evermore.
PETER McGUIRE; OR, NATURE AND GRACE.
IT has always been thought a most critical case,
When a man was possessed of more Nature than Grace;
For Theology teaches that man from the first
Was a sinner by Nature, and justly accurst;
And “Salvation by Grace” was the wonderful plan,
Which God had invented to save erring man.
’Twas the only atonement he knew how to make,
To annul the effects of his own sad mistake.
Now this was the doctrine of good Parson Brown,
Who preached, not long since, in a small country town.
He was zealous, and earnest, and could so excel
In describing the tortures of sinners in Hell,
That a famous revival commenced in the place,
And hundreds of souls found “Salvation by Grace;”
But he felt that he had not attained his desire,
Till he had converted one Peter McGuire.
This man was a blacksmith, frank, fearless and bold,
With great brawny sinews like Vulcan of old;
He had little respect for what ministers preach,
And sometimes was very profane in his speech.
His opinions were founded in clear common sense,
And he spoke as he thought, though he oft gave offense;
But however wanting, in whole or in part,
He was sound, and all right, when you came to his heart.
One day the good parson, with pious intent,
To the smithy of Peter most hopefully went;
And there, while the hammer industriously swung,
He preached, and he prayed, and exhorted, and sung,
And warned, and entreated poor Peter to fly
From the pit of destruction before he should die;
And to wash himself clean from the world’s sinful strife,
In the Blood of the Lamb, and the River of Life.
Well, and what would you now be inclined to expect
Was the probable issue and likely effect?
Why, he swore “like a Pirate,” and what do you think?
From a little black bottle took something to drink!
And he said, “I’ll not mention the Blood of the Lamb,
But as for that River it aren’t worth a----;”
Then pausing--as if to restrain his rude force--
He quietly added, “a mill-dam, of course.”
Quick out of the smithy the minister fled,
As if a big bomb-shell had burst near his head;
And as he continued to haste on his way,
He was too much excited to sing or to pray;
But he thought how that some were elected by Grace,
As heirs of the kingdom--made sure of their place--
While others were doomed to the pains of Hell-*fire,
And if e’er there was _one_ such, ’twas Peter McGuire.
That night, when the Storm King was riding on high,
And the red shafts of lightning gleamed bright through the sky,
The church of the village, “the Temple of God,”
Was struck, for the want of a good lightning rod,
And swiftly descending, the element dire
Set the minister’s house, close beside it, on fire,
While he peacefully slumbered, with never a fear
Of the terrible work of destruction so near.
There were Mary, and Hannah, and Tommy, and Joe,
All sweetly asleep in the bedroom below,
While their father was near, with their mother at rest,
(Like the wife of John Rogers with “one at the breast.”)
But Alice, the eldest, a gentle young dove,
Was asleep all alone, in the room just above;
And when the wild cry of the rescuer came,
She only was left to the pitiless flame.
The fond mother counted her treasures of love,
When lo! one was missing--“O Father above!”
How madly she shrieked in her agony wild--
“My Alice! My Alice! O, save my dear child!”
Then down on his knees fell the Parson, and prayed
That the terrible wrath of the Lord might be stayed.
Said Peter McGuire, “Prayer is good in its place,
But then it don’t suit _this_ particular case.”