Where Death’s cold touch can never blight
The buds most precious to the sight--
The Power Divine
Hath given to my fostering care,
A youthful band of spirits fair.
_Thus_ are they _mine_.
Sweet blossoms from the earthly spring--
Weak fledglings with the untried wing--
Dear lambs--such as the angels bring,
With tenderest love,
From earthly storms and tempests cold,
Safe to the warm and sheltering fold,
In heaven above.
O, gentle mothers of the earth,
Who gave these precious spirits birth,
Your homes have lost their sounds of mirth
And childish glee;
But not in Death’s embrace they sleep--
Nay, gentle mothers, cease to weep--
They dwell with me.
There, ’mid the amaranthine bowers,
Through all the long, bright, gladsome hours,
Your loved ones tend their birds and flowers,
And often come
With gifts of love and garlands bright,
To gladden, with their forms of light,
Your earthly home.
Their gentle lips to yours are pressed,
Their heads are pillowed on your breast,
And in your loving arms they rest,
For they are given
By Him whose ways are ever kind,
As precious links of love, to bind
Your souls to heaven.
O, could the sunshine of the heart
Dispel the blinding tears that start,
And all your doubts and fears depart--
Those forms, concealed
Like blossoms ’neath the shades of night,
Before your spirit’s quickening sight
Would stand revealed.
They still are yours, and yet are mine;
I teach them of the Life Divine,
And lead them to the truth’s pure shrine,
That evermore,
Through heavenly wisdom understood,
The True, the Beautiful, the Good,
They may adore.
They know no griefs, they shed no tears,
For perfect love dispels their fears,
And through their life’s eternal years,
They haste to meet
The humblest duty of the way,
And every call of love obey
With willing feet.
O, ye who tears of anguish shed
Above some empty cradle-bed,
Where once reposed a precious head--
Be reconciled.
For yet your longing eyes shall see,
In heaven’s broad sunshine, glad and free,
Your spirit child.
They are all there--they are all there--
The young, the beautiful, the fair;
They know no want, they feel no care.
They are not dead;
But quickened in their spirit’s powers,
Life crowns with her immortal flowers
Each shining head.
Some are no longer weak and small,
But fair, and beautiful, and tall;
And yet I call them _children_ all,
For they believe,
With child-like faith, the truths I teach,
And render back in simple speech
What they receive.
They are more precious in my sight
Than all the radiant gems of light
That on the royal brow of night
Arise and shine;
And through a pure maternal love,
Known even in the world above,
I call them mine.
O, ask them not for earth again,
The bitter cup of grief to drain,
To tread in sorrow and in pain
Life’s thorny track.
Love’s rainbow arch to heaven they crossed;
Gone, but not dead--unseen, not lost--
Call them not back.
O, gentle mothers, cease to weep;
The faithful shepherd of the sheep
The tender little lambs will keep.
’Mid shadows dim,
Lean calmly on the Father’s breast--
“He giveth his belovéd rest”--
Trust ye in him.
LITTLE NELL.
A POEM FOR THE CHILDREN OF THE LYCEUM.
CLEAR the wintry sky was glowing,
Sharp and loud the wind was blowing,
Icy cold the stream was flowing
In the little woodland dell,
When, with pitcher clasped so tightly,
Tripping cheerfully and lightly,
With her soft eyes smiling brightly,
To the spring came little Nell.
Late to bed and early rising,
With a patience quite surprising,
And without the least advising,
Faithful as a little dove--
Thus she toiled for her sick mother,
For, poor child! there was none other,
Not a sister or a brother,
Who could share her work of love.
As she stooped to dip the water,
Straight the cruel north wind caught her,
Down upon the ground it brought her,
And the little pitcher fell.
But with merry laugh upspringing,
And again the pitcher bringing,
As she filled it, gayly singing,
Homeward hastened little Nell.
“Ho!” cried Jack Frost, “if I catch her,
Such cold feet and hands I’ll fetch her,
I will make her drop her pitcher--
Little good-for-nothing thing!
Let me only once get at her,
It will be no trifling matter!
I will make her teeth to chatter
So, she will not dare to sing.”
“Holy angels, guard us ever,
God himself forsakes us never,”
Sung the maiden, blithe as ever--
“We are his forevermore.”
Then the wild wind beating o’er her,
Rudely on her way it bore her,
Heaping up the snow before her,
Till she reached the cottage door.
Scarcely had her mother missed her.
Hastening quickly to assist her,
Tenderly she stooped and kissed her,
And the poor, sick mother smiled.
Closely to her heart she pressed her,
Looking up to heaven she blessed her,
And before her God, confessed her
As His gift--that precious child.
Now, one little word of teaching--
Though I am not fond of preaching--
Yet most earnestly beseeching,
I would say to children small--
Learn that duties, howe’er lowly,
Done in _love_, will make life holy,
And will bring, though ofttimes slowly,
Sure and sweet reward to all.
THE SOUL’S DESTINY.
UP o’er the shining ways of light,
That flash across the starry skies,
Up to Creation’s loftiest hight,
The pathway of the spirit lies.
Where countless constellations gleam,
The soul triumphant shall ascend,
Shall drink of Life’s eternal stream,
And with new forms of being blend.
No boundless solitude of space
Shall fill man’s conscious soul with awe,
But everywhere his eye shall trace
The beauty of eternal law.
Sweet music from celestial isles
Shall float across the azure seas,
And flowers, where endless summer smiles,
Shall waft their perfumes on the breeze.
No empty void, no rayless night,
No wintry waves by tempests tossed,
No treasures ravished from the sight,
No blighted hopes, no blessing lost;
But all that was, or yet shall be,
Through endless transformations led,
Shall know, through Life’s sublime decree,
A resurrection from the dead.
And he who, through the lapse of years,
With aching heart and weary feet,
Had sought, from gloomy doubts and fears,
A refuge and a sure retreat--
Shall find at last an inner shrine,
Secure from superstition’s ban,
Where he shall learn the truth divine,
That God dwells evermore with man.
Throughout the boundless All in All,
Life lengthens--an unbroken chain--
And He in whom we stand or fall,
Feels all our pleasure and our pain.
O Infinite! O Holy Heart!
Give us but patience to endure,
Until we know thee as thou art,
And feel our lives in thee made sure.
GUARDIAN ANGELS.
HOLY ministers of light!
Hidden from our mortal sight,
But whose presence can impart
Peace and comfort to the heart,
When we weep, or when we pray,
When we falter in the way,
Or our hearts grow faint with fear,
Let us feel your presence near.
Wandering over ways untrod,
Doubting self and doubting God,
Oft we miss the shining mark,
Oft we stumble in the dark.
Holy, holy life above!
Full of peace and perfect love,
Some sweet rays of summer shed
On the wintry ways we tread.
Blessed angels! ye who heed
All our striving, all our need,
When our eyes with weeping ache,
When our hearts in silence break,
When the cross is hard to bear,
When we fail to do and dare,
Make our wounded spirits feel
All your power to bless and heal.
When we gaze on new-made graves,
When the love the spirit craves,
Pure and saintly, like a star,
Shines upon us from afar,
Lead us _upward_ to that light,
Till our faith is changed to sight,
Till we learn to murmur not,
And with patience bear our lot.
By our human weal and woe,
By our life of toil below,
By our sorrow and our pain,
By our hope of heavenly gain,
By these cherished forms of clay,
Fading from our sight away,
Do we plead for light, more light,
From that world beyond our sight.
Never, till our hearts are dust,
Till our souls shall cease to trust,
Till our love becomes a lie,
And our aspirations die,
Shall we cease with hope, to gaze
On that veil’s mysterious haze,
Or the presence to implore
Of the loved ones gone before.
Holy spirit! quickening all,
On thy boundless love we call;
Send thy messengers of light,
To unseal our inward sight;
Lift us from our low estate,
Make us truly wise and great,
That our lives, through love, may be
Full of peace and rest in Thee.
NEARER TO THEE.
The following Poem was given at the conclusion of a lecture on “The
Present Condition of Theodore Parker in Spirit Life”
NEARER, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee.[36]
YES, I _am_ nearer Thee! for flesh and sense
Have been exchanged for an eternal youth;
My spirit hath been born anew, and hence
I worship Thee “in spirit and in truth.”
Yes, I _am_ nearer Thee! Though still unseen,
Thy presence fills my life’s diviner part.
Now that no earthly shadows intervene,
I feel a deeper sense of what Thou art.
Yes, I _am_ nearer Thee! Thy boundless love
Fills all my being with a rich increase,
And soft descending, like a heavenly dove,
I feel the benediction of Thy peace.
Yes, I _am_ nearer Thee! All that I sought
Of Truth, or Wisdom, or Eternal Right,
Is clearly present to my inmost thought,
Like the uprising of a glorious light.
Yes, I _am_ nearer Thee! O, calm and still,
And beautiful and blest beyond degree,
Is this surrender of my finite will--
Is this absorption of my soul in Thee.
“O Thou! whom men call God and know no more!”
When they shall leave the worship of the Past,
And learn to _love_ Thee rather than _adore_,
All souls shall draw thus near to Thee at last.
THE SACRAMENT.
THE aged pastor broke the bread--
With trembling hands he poured the wine--
“Eat--drink”--in earnest tones he said--
“These emblems of a life divine--
His body broken for your sins;
His blood for your salvation shed;
The priceless sacrifice that wins
Life and redemption from the dead.
“See how with tender love he stands,
And calls you to his faithful heart;
Lo! from his wounded side and hands
Again the crimson life-drops start.
O sinner! wherefore will you stay,
Regardless of your lost estate?
Come at your Saviour’s call to-day,
Before, alas! it is too late.”
Forth from his lonely seat apart,
A dark-browed, Ethiopian came,
As if new life had stirred the heart
That beat within his manly frame.
“O, give to me,” he meekly said,
“A portion of that heavenly food;
I too would eat the living bread,
And find salvation through his blood.”
The Pastor turned with wondering eyes;
But when he saw the dusky brow,
He answered, with a quick surprise,
“Ho! bold intruder! Who art thou?
The master’s table is not free
To give the low-born servant place--
Such privilege can only be
For his accepted sons of grace.”
Upon the dusky brow there glowed
A flush that was not wrath nor pride,
As forward he majestic strode,
And stood close by the altar-side.
The broken bread his left hand spurned
With sudden movement to the floor,
While with his right he quickly turned
The consecrated chalice o’er.
One instant, for the tempest-cloud
To gather on each pallid face.
And then uprose the angry crowd
To thrust him from the sacred place.
With conscious might he raised his hand--
A being of resistless will--
And uttered the sublime command
That hushed the tempest--“Peace, be still!”
The waves of wrath and human pride
Rolled back, without the power to harm,
The angry murmurs surged and died,
And lo! there was a breathless calm.
The dusky brow to dazzling white
Had in one fleeting instant turned,
And round his head a halo bright
Of heaven’s resplendent glory burned.
“I do reject,” he calmly said,
“These outward forms--this bread, this wine:
Lo! at _my_ table _all_ are fed,
Made welcome by a love divine.
The high, the low, the rich, the poor,
The black, the white, the bond, the free,
The sinful soul, the heart impure--
Forbid them not to come to me.
“Too long, too long have faithless creeds
Shut out the sunshine from above,
While human hearts, with human needs,
Have perished from the lack of love.
O, break for them truth’s living bread;
Let love, like wine, unhindered flow;
_Thus_ would I have the hungry fed,
And let these outward emblems go.”
Then from the altar-side there rose
A cloud with matchless glory bright,
As when, at evening’s calm repose,
The sun withdraws his radiant light.
But though so far removed from all,
He seemed in presence to depart,
The seed of living truth let fall
Took root in many a thoughtful heart.
THE GOOD TIME NOW.
THE world is strong with a mighty hope
Of a good time yet to be,
And carefully casts the horoscope
Of her future destiny;
And poet, and prophet, and priest, and sage,
Are watching, with anxious eyes,
To see the light of that promised age
On the waiting world arise.
O, weary and long seems that time to some,
Who under Life’s burdens bow,
For while they wait for that time to come,
They forget ’tis a good time now.
Yes, a good time _now_--for we cannot say
What the morrow will bring to view;
But we’re always sure of the time to-day,
And the course we must pursue;
And no better time is ever sought,
By a brave heart, under the sun,
Than the present hour, with its noblest thought,
And the duties to be done.
’Tis enough for the earnest soul to see
There is work to be done, and how,
For he knows that the good time yet to be,
Depends on the good time now.
There is never a broken link in the chain,
And never a careless flaw,
For cause and effect, and loss and gain,
Are true to a changeless law.
_Now_ is the time to sow the seed
For the harvest of future years,
_Now_ is the time for a noble deed,
While the need for the work appears.
You must earn the bread of your liberty
By toil and the sweat of your brow,
And hasten the good time yet to be,
By improving the good time now.
’Tis as bright a sun that shines to-day
As will shine in the coming time;
And Truth has as weighty a word to say,
Through her oracles sublime.
There are voices in earth, and air, and sky,
That tell of the good time here,
And visions that come to Faith’s clear eye,
The weary in heart to cheer.
The glorious fruit on Life’s goodly tree
Is ripening on every bough,
And the wise in spirit rejoice to see
The light of the good time now.
The world rests not, with a careless ease,
On the wisdom of the past--
From Moses, and Plato, and Socrates,
It is onward advancing fast;
And the words of Jesus, and John, and Paul,
Stand out from the lettered page,
And the living present contains them all,
In the spirit that moves the age.
Great, earnest souls, through the Truth made free,
No longer in blindness bow,
And the good time coming, the yet to be,
Has begun with the good time now.
Then up! nor wait for the promised hour,
For the good time now is best,
And the soul that uses its gift of power
Shall be in the present blest.
Whatever the future may have in store,
With a will there is ever a way;
And none need burden the soul with more
Than the duties of to-day.
Then up! with a spirit brave and free,
And put the hand to the plow,
Nor _wait_ for the good time _yet to be_,
But _work_ in the _good time now_.
LIFE’S MYSTERIES.
TO the soul that is gifted with seeing
The secrets and sources of being,
A mystical meaning appears
For the hearts that in silence are broken,
For the words of affection unspoken,
For sorrow, bereavement, and tears.
There are souls that with genius are gifted,
On crosses of sorrow uplifted,
Who find their salvation through pain;
There are deeds of the brave unrecorded,
And the toil of warm hands unrewarded,
Whose loss is an infinite gain.
There are spirits who pray that no morrow
May dawn on the depths of their sorrow;
But the morrow brings patience and peace.
And the faithful, who often with weeping
Have sown the good seed in their keeping,
Have garnered a blessed increase.
There are lives that are matchless in beauty,
Through the faithful performance of duty,
Whose labors of love are unknown.
There are spirits who languish in prison,
Whose light on the world has not risen,
And yet they are never alone.
The poor, the oppressed, and the lowly,
The selfish, the weak, and the holy,
Have each in life’s drama a part.
While the wants and the woes that o’ercame them,
With the lives of the righteous who blame them,
Are known to the Infinite Heart.
O, where is the angel recorder!
And where is the watchman and warder,
That is charged with the keeping of souls?
And what is the mystical meaning,
Which the thoughtful in spirit are gleaning
From the Force that all Nature controls?
O, not where the sun-fires are burning,
And not where the planets are turning
Their faces to welcome the light,
Shall we seek for the Centre of Being,
And learn of the Wisdom All-seeing,
Or climb to life’s infinite hight.
But deep as love’s fathomless ocean,
In a spirit of lowly devotion,
Should we patiently strive to ascend;
Not reckless, unfeeling, and stoic,
But with courage and calmness heroic,
Unswerving and true to the end.
With shoulders that bow to life’s crosses,
With hearts that faint not at their losses,
With spirits that triumph o’er pain,--
At length to such souls shall be given
The peaceful possession of heaven,
And the life that is infinite gain.
Then, judged by the complex relation
Of each to the Soul of Creation,
Distinctions of merit must fall.
There is good for the Saint and the Sinner,
There is gain for the loser or winner,
And a just compensation for all.
For the Infinite Life is ascending,
And all things are with it uptending,
Away from all evil and strife.
To man is the toil of endeavor,
But unto that Being, forever,
The peace and perfection of life.
A WOODLAND IDYL.
OLD Brown Brier lived in the depths of a wood,
Close down by a sassafras tree;
Jealous, and selfish, and hostile to all,
A surly old fellow was he.
He hated his neighbor, the sassafras-tree,
When her leaves grew green in the spring,
And he almost perished with envy and spite,
When he heard an oriole sing.
But one thing saved him, and only one,
From a life of sorrow and woe;
He longed for a change in his hermit life,
And a power in himself to grow.
A fair young child to the green-wood came,
With eyes like the gentian blue;
Her hair was like threads of an amber flame,
And her cheek wore the sunset hue.
Her step was light as the bounding roe,
And her voice like a silver bell;
She charmed the birds from their green retreats,
And the squirrel from his cell.
She sang of the love, of the free, great love,
Which the Father has for all,
From the worlds of light, in the heavens above,
To the flowers and the insects small.
“Ah!” sighed the Brier, the brown old Brier,
“What has he done for me?”
Does he give me leaves in the early spring,
Or flowers like the locust tree?”
“Our God is just, and our God is true,”
Still warbled the happy child;
“He sendeth his sunshine and silver dew
To the desert and lonely wild;
And the secret force in the tempest cloud
To the smallest flower is given,
That all, by his wisdom and strength endowed,
May live for the Lord of Heaven.”
She passed. The old Brier was lost in thought.
“And is it, then, really so?
Can this wondrous change by _myself_ be wrought?
_Have_ I power in myself to grow?”
Then up from the gray old mother Earth
Rich juices he quickly drew,
Till the sluices and channels small were filled
With the fresh sap trickling through.
He called to the winds, to the warm spring winds,
As they played with the flowers near by,
And he prayed the sunshine, with golden wings,
On his cold, damp roots to lie.
The spring winds blew, and the sunshine came,
And the Brier grew fresh and fair,
Till his blossoms, like wreaths of incense cups,
With their fragrance filled the air.
Again the child to the green-wood came;
But her step was sad and slow;
Her eye beamed not with its love-lit flame,
And her voice was soft and low.
“I am changed,” she said; “O ye birds and flowers!
With a yearning heart I weep
To lay me down in these quiet bowers,
In a long, untroubled sleep.
For O, my heart like a flower is crushed,
And I cling to the world no more;
The sacred fount from its urn hath gushed,
And the joy of my life is o’er.”
The summer winds through the green-wood passed,
And the sweet Brier bowed his head;
A garland fair at her feet he cast,
And in gentle tones he said,--
“Return to the world, dear child, return;
No longer _receive_, but _give_!
From a humble Brier this lesson learn:
Thou hast power in _thyself_ to live.
JUBILATE.
Sung at the celebration of the 20th anniversary of
Modern Spiritualism,
March 31, 1868.
THE world hath felt a quickening breath
From Heaven’s eternal shore,
And souls triumphant over Death
Return to earth once more.
For _this_ we hold our jubilee,
For this with joy we sing--
“O Grave, where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?”
Our cypress wreaths are laid aside
For amaranthine flowers,
For Death’s cold wave does not divide
The souls we love from ours.
From pain, and death, and sorrow free,
They join with us to sing--
“O Grave, where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?”
Immortal eyes look from above
Upon our joys to-night,
And souls immortal in their love
In our glad songs unite.
Across the waveless crystal sea
The notes triumphant ring--
“O Grave, where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?”
“Sweet spirits, welcome yet again!”
With loving hearts we cry;
And, “Peace on earth, good will to men,”
The angel hosts reply.
From doubt and fear, through truth made free,
With faith triumphant sing--
“O Grave, where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?”
THE DIVINE IDEA.
WHEN the morning came with her eyes of flame,
And looked on the youthful earth;
When man, at the call of the Lord of All,
Rose up in his glorious birth;
When the stars rang out, with a tuneful shout
To the mountains and the sea,
And the world’s great heart, with a quickened start,
Beat time to their melody;--
Ere the dawning light in the heavens grew bright,
Ere the march of the hours began,
God planted the seed of a mighty need,
In the innermost soul of man.
’Twas the yearning wild that a little child
For the fostering parent feels--
A holy thought with his life inwrought,
Which his simplest act reveals.
The lion proud, like a servant, bowed
At the might of his sovereign will;
But to man alone was the sense made known
Of a power that was higher still.
Yet vague and dim was that thought to him;
His simple and child-like mind
Could not gaze aright on that matchless light,
So boundless and unconfined.
Gross by birth from his mother Earth,
He needed some outward sign;
So the artisan planned, with a cunning hand,
A _form_ of the Great Divine.
And Baal, and Allah, and Juggernaut,
And Brahma, and Zeus, and Pan,
Show how deeply wrought was that one great thought,
In the worshiping soul of man.
Then his Deity came in the morning’s flame,
In the song of the sun-lit seas,
In the stars at night, in the noontide light,
In the woods and the murmuring breeze.
To the Great Divine at the idol shrine,
By each and by every name,
Through the fiery death or the prayerful breath,
The worship was still the same.
Like a grain in the sod grew the thought of God,
As Nature’s slow work appears;
From the zoöphyte small, to the “Lord of all,”
Through cycles and sums of years.
But the dark grew bright, and the night grew light,
When the era of Truth began,
And the soul was taught, through its primal thought,
_Of the life of God in man_.
Then the soul arose from her long repose,
At the Truth’s awakening breath,
And fearlessly trod as a child of God,
Triumphant o’er Time and Death.
There came a sound from the wide world round,
Like the surging of the sea,
Majestic and deep in its onward sweep--
’Twas the anthem of the free.
Through the ages dim has that holy hymn
Come down to our listening ears;
And still shall it float with a sweeter note
Through the vista of coming years.
And a voice makes known from the viewless throne,
“As it hath been, shall it be--
On! on from the past! still on to the last!
Like a river that seeks the sea.”
“Hour by hour, like an opening flower,
Shall truth after truth expand;
The sun may grow pale, and the stars may fail,
But the purpose of God shall stand.
Dogmas and creeds without kindred deeds,
And altar and fane, shall fall;
One bond of love, and one home above,
And one faith shall be to all.”
THE PYRAMIDS.
“I was weary, very weary; but when I leaned against the Pyramids,
_they_ gave me strength.”--KOSCIELSKI.
A WANDERER from his childhood’s home,
An exile from his father-land,
His weary feet were doomed to roam
Far o’er the desert’s scorching sand.
No mother o’er his pillow smiled,
No sister’s hand a blessing lent;
His only couch the desert wild,
His only home an Arab tent.