Light from the spirit world / The pilgrimage of Thomas Paine and others to the seventh circle in the spirit world

POETRY.

The following article was written for an Album, February 12th, 1852. I sat down with the intention of writing a prose article, by the request of a lady, without the aid of spirits. When seated, my mind lost all thought, for a few moments: I had no design of writing a poetical article, for nature did not make me a poet, and not much of a judge of poetry. I will say, I never wrote a line of poetry in my life, unless with the aid of spirits, since I have been a medium. In about five minutes my hand began to move, and wrote as follows:

THE SECOND SPHERE.

There is a flower that fadeth never;

There is a star which never sets;

There is a gem that shineth ever—

There is a Mind, which ne’er forgets

The flower, so sweet, so fadeless, even

The star, ’mid other stars, so bright—

The gem that decks the vault of heaven;

Or mind that lives for purer light,

Where angels dwell in nightless day,

Where seraphs chant the holy lay,

Where minds unite with minds above,

Where all is peace, where all is love.

There is a casket filled with flowers;

There is a stream of crystal life;

There is a beauty decks my bowers,

In this bright world away from strife;

Which fills my soul with grateful praise,

Which melts my heart with holy fire,

Which wakes my song, inspires my lays,

And quickens mind with pure desire;

For sweet employ in works of love,

To bless my soul with grace above—

The flower, the star, or gem so fair,

That I no want or sorrow share.

LINES

Addressed to Rev. T. J. Smith, through S. H. Lewis, Medium, March, 1851.

Go ahead, look backward, never,

Onward, be the CRY

Fight truth’s battles—never, never,

From the contest fly.

Be thou ever looking upward,

For the truth on high;

Falter, faint not, in the struggle;

Be your watchword, TRY.

Try for every thing that’s glorious,

Be you good and true;

Ever be your motto, progress—

Ev’ry THING that’s new.

Care not for the world’s applauding;

Think of something higher,

Strive to serve the heavenly Father;

Preach, with holy fire.

Holy spirits guard you ever,

Keep you in the way;

From the earth, your heart then sever—

Wait the rising day—

Ye shall see it, feel it, know it,

Tell it to the world—

Tell them ALL, that superstition

From its throne is hurled.

S. R. Smith.

THE VOICE OF THE SPIRIT.

Blessed are the living who see the light of salvation. They shall be as stars in the firmament, and shine forever and ever in the heavenly kingdom. They shall not visit the tomb of the departed without hope, nor mourn without consolation. They shall rejoice always in the hope of heaven.

Hast thou been to my grave? There no voice responds to thy mourning soul. Hast thou been weary with care? Thy care will not lift the burden from thy spirit. Where, then, wilt thou go? Go where the sunlight is unbroken by the intervening cloud of despair, and the song thou wilt hear, will be the song thou dost love.

Go, sister, not declining,

Till thy weary work is done;

Go, when thy soul is pining,

Oft, and bow before the throne

Of mercy, never tiring,

Of goodness forever free;

And let thy mind admiring,

Be warmed with charity:

There offer thy oblation,

Where misfortune claims thy aid

There seek the great salvation,

As thou and I oft have prayed.

LINES
TO A FRIEND FROM THE SECOND SPHERE.

Thou art weary, my friend, with earth’s fading toys;

Thou hast felt not the love of wisdom’s pure joys,

Nor seen the bright sunshine, in mercy untold,

Unfolding a beauty more precious than gold;

For the clear stream of truth rolls sweetly along,

Like notes on the wave of the seraphim’s song:

The minds I behold, are the friends I admire,

And the love which I feel, my soul doth inspire:

The song I have heard, is a song known to me,

More welcome its notes than the flute’s dulcet key:

More wondrous the wisdom, disclos’d by the star,

Revolving ’mid circles of systems afar,

Than the moonlight of mind, with works evermore

Conflicting with nature on error’s dark shore;

Or the dream of thy mind, or the fear of the knell,

Which comes to thy soul from the sad, tolling bell.

Away, far away, from my beautiful bower,

Thy strength thou art wasting with thy weary hour,

Where the sweet song of heaven dispels not thy fear,

Nor the angels of mercy away chase thy tear;

Though one thou hast lov’d with the love of true joy,

Would welcome thee upward to sweeter employ.

Away then, dear friend, away with thy sadness,

The bright morning dawns with hope of true gladness;

And the one thou hast lov’d is not far away;

But is near thee to bless, by night and by day.

The following article was written by a spirit, with the hand of Mrs. Charlotte M. Cavan, of this city, who has kindly consented to its publication. The spirit designed to make her speak as she felt, and to represent her condition.

A VOICE FROM THE SPIRIT LAND.

I hear a voice, ’tis sweet withal—

Far sweeter than Æolian lyre;

Gentle its murmurs on me fall,

In harmonies that never tire.

I know that voice, my inmost soul

Answers in quick response to thine;

Deep are the harmonies that roll,

When thy fond spirit enters mine.

For worlds of wealth, I would not give

The wisdom I receive from thee;

Thou bidst me to be pure, and live

Worthy of one whose spirit’s free;

For what is death? ’tis but a life—

The dawning of a new born day;

With immortality ’tis rife—

A bliss that can not pass away.

Then gently speak, and touch my hand;

Give me more light and truth divine;

And, when at last the spirit land,

Unfolds this waiting soul of mine,

Thou’lt be the first to welcome me—

To lure my raptur’d spirit higher;

To show me those I long to see,

And tune for me thy angel lyre.