Upon the clear, bright, northern sky,
Aurora’s rainbow arches gleamed,
While, from their radiant source on high,
The countless host of evening beamed;
Each moving in its path of light—
Those paths by Science then untrod—
The silent guardians of the night,
The watchers by the throne of God.
Aurora’s rainbow arches gleamed,
While, from their radiant source on high,
The countless host of evening beamed;
Each moving in its path of light—
Those paths by Science then untrod—
The silent guardians of the night,
The watchers by the throne of God.
Far up above the gloomy wood,—
The wavy, murmuring wood of pine,—
Upon the mountain side, there stood
A worshipper at Nature’s shrine.
His spirit, like a breathing lyre,
At each celestial touch awoke,
And burning with a sacred fire,
His voice the solemn silence broke.
The wavy, murmuring wood of pine,—
Upon the mountain side, there stood
A worshipper at Nature’s shrine.
His spirit, like a breathing lyre,
At each celestial touch awoke,
And burning with a sacred fire,
His voice the solemn silence broke.
“O, glittering host! O, golden line!
I would I had an angel’s ken,
Your deepest secrets to divine,
And read your mysteries to men.
The glorious truth is in my soul,
The solemn witness in my heart—
Although ye move as one great whole,
Each bears his own appointed part.”
* * * * * *
He slept. No! in a blissful trance
The feebler powers of Nature lay,
While upward, o’er the vast expanse,
His eager spirit swept away,—
Away into those fields of light,
By human footsteps unexplored;
Order and beauty met his sight—
He saw, he wondered, and adored!
I would I had an angel’s ken,
Your deepest secrets to divine,
And read your mysteries to men.
The glorious truth is in my soul,
The solemn witness in my heart—
Although ye move as one great whole,
Each bears his own appointed part.”
* * * * * *
He slept. No! in a blissful trance
The feebler powers of Nature lay,
While upward, o’er the vast expanse,
His eager spirit swept away,—
Away into those fields of light,
By human footsteps unexplored;
Order and beauty met his sight—
He saw, he wondered, and adored!
And o’er the vast area of space,
And through the height and depth profound,
Each starless void and shining place
Was filled with harmony of sound.
Now, swelling like the voice of seas,
With the full, rushing tide of years,
Then, sighing like an evening breeze,
It died among the distant spheres.
And through the height and depth profound,
Each starless void and shining place
Was filled with harmony of sound.
Now, swelling like the voice of seas,
With the full, rushing tide of years,
Then, sighing like an evening breeze,
It died among the distant spheres.
Rich goblets filled with “Samian wine,”
Or “Life’s elixir, sparkling high,”
Could not impart such joy divine
As that full chorus of the sky.
He might have heard the Orphean lute,
Or caught the sound of Memnon’s lyre,
And yet his lips could still be mute,
Nor feel one spark of kindred fire.
Or “Life’s elixir, sparkling high,”
Could not impart such joy divine
As that full chorus of the sky.
He might have heard the Orphean lute,
Or caught the sound of Memnon’s lyre,
And yet his lips could still be mute,
Nor feel one spark of kindred fire.
LOVE AND LATIN.
Amo—amare—amavi—amatum.[A]
Dear girls, never marry for knowledge,
(Though that should of course form a part,)
For often the head, in a college,
Gets wise at the cost of the heart.
Let me tell you a fact that is real—
I once had a beau in my youth,
My brightest and best “beau ideal”
Of manliness, goodness, and truth.
(Though that should of course form a part,)
For often the head, in a college,
Gets wise at the cost of the heart.
Let me tell you a fact that is real—
I once had a beau in my youth,
My brightest and best “beau ideal”
Of manliness, goodness, and truth.
O, he talked of the Greeks and the Romans,
Of Normans, and Saxons, and Celts,
And he quoted from Virgil, and Homer,
And Plato, and —— somebody else.
And he told me his deathless affection,
By means of a thousand strange herbs,
With numberless words in connection,
Derived from the roots of Greek verbs.
Of Normans, and Saxons, and Celts,
And he quoted from Virgil, and Homer,
And Plato, and —— somebody else.
And he told me his deathless affection,
By means of a thousand strange herbs,
With numberless words in connection,
Derived from the roots of Greek verbs.
One night, as a sly innuendo,
When Nature was mantled in snow,
He wrote in the frost on the window,
A sweet word in Latin—“amo.”
O, it needed no words for expression,
For that I had long understood;
But there was his written confession—
Present tense and indicative mood.
When Nature was mantled in snow,
He wrote in the frost on the window,
A sweet word in Latin—“amo.”
O, it needed no words for expression,
For that I had long understood;
But there was his written confession—
Present tense and indicative mood.
But O, how man’s passion will vary!
For scarcely a year had passed by,
When he changed the “amo” to “amare,”
But instead of an “e” was a “y.”
Yes, a Mary had certainly taken
The heart once so fondly my own,
And I, the rejected, forsaken,
Was left to reflection alone.
For scarcely a year had passed by,
When he changed the “amo” to “amare,”
But instead of an “e” was a “y.”
Yes, a Mary had certainly taken
The heart once so fondly my own,
And I, the rejected, forsaken,
Was left to reflection alone.
THE FATE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.
“In March, of 1854, says the Cleveland Herald, several months before the arrival of Dr. Rae, with his news of the probable death of the brave Sir John Franklin and his faithful comrades, we copied from the Lily of the Valley for 1854, a beautiful poem by Miss Lizzie Doten, in reference to these adventurers. The verses are touching and solemn as the sound of a passing bell, and appear almost prophetic of the news that afterwards came. ‘The Song of the North’ again becomes deeply interesting as connected with the thrilling account brought home by the Fox—the last vessel sent in search of the lost adventurers to the icy North, and the last that will now ever be sent on such an expedition.”—Buffalo Daily Republic.
SONG OF THE NORTH.
“Away, away!” cried the stout Sir John,
“While the blossoms are on the trees,
For the summer is short, and the times speeds on
As we sail for the northern seas.
Ho! gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James!
We will startle the world, I trow,
When we find a way through the Northern seas
That never was found till now!
A good stout ship is the ‘Erebus,’
As ever unfurled a sail,
And the ‘Terror’ will match with as brave a one
As ever outrode a gale.”
“While the blossoms are on the trees,
For the summer is short, and the times speeds on
As we sail for the northern seas.
Ho! gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James!
We will startle the world, I trow,
When we find a way through the Northern seas
That never was found till now!
A good stout ship is the ‘Erebus,’
As ever unfurled a sail,
And the ‘Terror’ will match with as brave a one
As ever outrode a gale.”
So they bade farewell to their pleasant homes,
To the hills and the valleys green,
With three hearty cheers for their native isle,
And three for the English Queen.
They sped them away, beyond cape and bay,
Where the day and the night are one—
Where the hissing light in the heavens grew bright,
And flamed like a midnight sun.
There was nought below, save the fields of snow,
That stretched to the icy pole;
And the Esquimaux, in his strange canoe,
Was the only living soul!
To the hills and the valleys green,
With three hearty cheers for their native isle,
And three for the English Queen.
They sped them away, beyond cape and bay,
Where the day and the night are one—
Where the hissing light in the heavens grew bright,
And flamed like a midnight sun.
There was nought below, save the fields of snow,
That stretched to the icy pole;
And the Esquimaux, in his strange canoe,
Was the only living soul!
Along the coast, like a giant host,
The glittering icebergs frowned,
Or they met on the main, like a battle plain,
And crashed with a fearful sound!
The seal and the bear, with a curious stare,
Looked down from the frozen heights,
And the stars in the skies, with their great, wild eyes,
Peered out from the Northern Lights.
The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James,
And even the stout Sir John,
Felt a doubt, like a chill, through their warm hearts thrill,
As they urged the good ships on.
The glittering icebergs frowned,
Or they met on the main, like a battle plain,
And crashed with a fearful sound!
The seal and the bear, with a curious stare,
Looked down from the frozen heights,
And the stars in the skies, with their great, wild eyes,
Peered out from the Northern Lights.
The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James,
And even the stout Sir John,
Felt a doubt, like a chill, through their warm hearts thrill,
As they urged the good ships on.
They sped them away, beyond cape and bay,
Where even the tear-drops freeze,
But no way was found, by a strait or sound,
To sail through the Northern seas;
They sped them away, beyond cape and bay,
And they sought, but they sought in vain,
For no way was found, through the ice around,
To return to their homes again.
Then the wild waves rose, and the waters froze,
Till they closed like a prison wall;
And the icebergs stood in the sullen flood,
Like their jailers, grim and tall.
O God! O God!—it was hard to die
In that prison house of ice!
For what was fame, or a mighty name,
When life was the fearful price?
The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James,
And even the stout Sir John,
Had a secret dread, and their hopes all fled,
As the weeks and the months passed on.
Then the Ice King came, with his eyes of flame,
And looked on that fated crew;
His chilling breath was as cold as death,
And it pierced their warm hearts through!
A heavy sleep, that was dark and deep,
Came over their weary eyes,
And they dreamed strange dreams of the hills and streams,
And the blue of their native skies.
Where even the tear-drops freeze,
But no way was found, by a strait or sound,
To sail through the Northern seas;
They sped them away, beyond cape and bay,
And they sought, but they sought in vain,
For no way was found, through the ice around,
To return to their homes again.
Then the wild waves rose, and the waters froze,
Till they closed like a prison wall;
And the icebergs stood in the sullen flood,
Like their jailers, grim and tall.
O God! O God!—it was hard to die
In that prison house of ice!
For what was fame, or a mighty name,
When life was the fearful price?
The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James,
And even the stout Sir John,
Had a secret dread, and their hopes all fled,
As the weeks and the months passed on.
Then the Ice King came, with his eyes of flame,
And looked on that fated crew;
His chilling breath was as cold as death,
And it pierced their warm hearts through!
A heavy sleep, that was dark and deep,
Came over their weary eyes,
And they dreamed strange dreams of the hills and streams,
And the blue of their native skies.
The Christmas chimes, of the good old times,
Were heard in each dying ear,
And the dancing feet, and the voices sweet
Of their wives and their children dear!
But it faded away—away—away!
Like a sound on a distant shore,
And deeper and deeper grew the sleep,
Till they slept to wake no more.
Were heard in each dying ear,
And the dancing feet, and the voices sweet
Of their wives and their children dear!
But it faded away—away—away!
Like a sound on a distant shore,
And deeper and deeper grew the sleep,
Till they slept to wake no more.
O, the sailor’s wife, and the sailor’s child,
They will weep, and watch, and pray;
And the Lady Jane, she will hope in vain,
As the long years pass away!
The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James,
And the good Sir John have found
An open way, to a quiet bay,
And a port where we all are bound!
Let the waters roar on the ice-bound shore,
That circles the frozen pole;
But there is no sleep, and no grave so deep,
That can hold a human soul.
They will weep, and watch, and pray;
And the Lady Jane, she will hope in vain,
As the long years pass away!
The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James,
And the good Sir John have found
An open way, to a quiet bay,
And a port where we all are bound!
Let the waters roar on the ice-bound shore,
That circles the frozen pole;
But there is no sleep, and no grave so deep,
That can hold a human soul.
THE BURIAL OF WEBSTER.
Low and solemn be the requiem above the nation’s dead;
Let fervent prayers be uttered, and farewell blessings said!
Close by the sheltering homestead, beneath the household tree,
Where oft his footsteps lingered, here let the parting be!
Draw near in solemn silence, with slow and measured tread;
Come with the brow uncovered, and gaze upon the dead!
How like a fallen hero, in silent rest he lies!
With the seal of Death upon him, and its dimness in his eyes!
Speak! but there comes no answer. That voice of power is still
Which woke the slumbering Senate as with a giant’s will!—
That voice, which rang so proudly back from the echoing walls,
In court and civic council, and legislative halls;
Which summoned back those spirits, who long were mute and still,—
The Pilgrim sires of Plymouth—the dead of Bunker Hill,—
And in their silent presence gave to the past a tongue
Like that which roused the nations when Freedom’s war-cry rung.
But now, the roar of cannon, the thunder of the deep,
The battle-shock of earthquakes, cannot wake him from his sleep!
The foot that trod so proudly upon the earth’s green sod,
The manly form, created in the image of its God,
The brow, where mental greatness had set her noblest seal,
The lip, whence thoughts were uttered like shafts of polished steel,—
All, all of these shall moulder back to their parent earth,
Back to the silent bosom from whence they sprang to birth!
The man,—the living Webster—passed with a fleeting breath!
Alas, for human greatness!—the end thereof is death!
O! what is earthly glory? Ask Cæsar, when he fell
At the base of Pompey’s statue, slain by those he loved too well;
Ask the Carthaginian hero, who kept his fearful vow;
Ask Napoleon in his exile; ask the dead before ye now;—
And one answer, and one only, in the light of truth is given:
“Man’s highest earthly glory is to do the will of Heaven;
To rise and battle bravely, with dauntless moral might,
In the holy cause of Freedom, and the triumph of the Right!”
For by this simple standard shall all at last be tried,
And not by earthly glory, or works of human pride.
Let fervent prayers be uttered, and farewell blessings said!
Close by the sheltering homestead, beneath the household tree,
Where oft his footsteps lingered, here let the parting be!
Draw near in solemn silence, with slow and measured tread;
Come with the brow uncovered, and gaze upon the dead!
How like a fallen hero, in silent rest he lies!
With the seal of Death upon him, and its dimness in his eyes!
Speak! but there comes no answer. That voice of power is still
Which woke the slumbering Senate as with a giant’s will!—
That voice, which rang so proudly back from the echoing walls,
In court and civic council, and legislative halls;
Which summoned back those spirits, who long were mute and still,—
The Pilgrim sires of Plymouth—the dead of Bunker Hill,—
And in their silent presence gave to the past a tongue
Like that which roused the nations when Freedom’s war-cry rung.
But now, the roar of cannon, the thunder of the deep,
The battle-shock of earthquakes, cannot wake him from his sleep!
The foot that trod so proudly upon the earth’s green sod,
The manly form, created in the image of its God,
The brow, where mental greatness had set her noblest seal,
The lip, whence thoughts were uttered like shafts of polished steel,—
All, all of these shall moulder back to their parent earth,
Back to the silent bosom from whence they sprang to birth!
The man,—the living Webster—passed with a fleeting breath!
Alas, for human greatness!—the end thereof is death!
O! what is earthly glory? Ask Cæsar, when he fell
At the base of Pompey’s statue, slain by those he loved too well;
Ask the Carthaginian hero, who kept his fearful vow;
Ask Napoleon in his exile; ask the dead before ye now;—
And one answer, and one only, in the light of truth is given:
“Man’s highest earthly glory is to do the will of Heaven;
To rise and battle bravely, with dauntless moral might,
In the holy cause of Freedom, and the triumph of the Right!”
For by this simple standard shall all at last be tried,
And not by earthly glory, or works of human pride.
O Webster! thou wast mighty among thy fellow-men;
And he who seeks to judge thee must be what thou hast been;—
Must feel thine aspirations for higher aims in life,
And know the stern temptations that urged thee in the strife;
Must let his heart flow largely from out its narrow span,
And meet thee freely, fairly, as man should meet with man.
What was lost, and what resisted, is known to One alone:
Then let him who stands here guiltless “be first to cast a stone”!
And he who seeks to judge thee must be what thou hast been;—
Must feel thine aspirations for higher aims in life,
And know the stern temptations that urged thee in the strife;
Must let his heart flow largely from out its narrow span,
And meet thee freely, fairly, as man should meet with man.
What was lost, and what resisted, is known to One alone:
Then let him who stands here guiltless “be first to cast a stone”!
Farewell! We give, with mourning, back to thy mother Earth
The robes thy soul rejected at its celestial birth!
The robes thy soul rejected at its celestial birth!
A mightier one and stronger may stand where thou wast tried,
Yet he shall be the wiser that thou hast lived and died;
Thy greatness be his glory, thine errors let him shun,
And let him finish nobly what thou hast left undone.
Yet he shall be the wiser that thou hast lived and died;
Thy greatness be his glory, thine errors let him shun,
And let him finish nobly what thou hast left undone.
THE PARTING OF SIGURD AND GERDA.
“He is a strong, proud man, such as a woman might, with pride, call her partner—‘if only—O! if he would but understand her nature, and allow it to be worth something.’”—See Miss Bremer’s “Brothers and Sisters.”
She stood beneath the moonlight pale,
With calm, uplifted eye,
While all her being, weak and frail,
Thrilled with her purpose high;
For she, the long affianced bride,
Must seal the fount of tears,
And break, with woman’s lofty pride,
The plighted faith of years.
With calm, uplifted eye,
While all her being, weak and frail,
Thrilled with her purpose high;
For she, the long affianced bride,
Must seal the fount of tears,
And break, with woman’s lofty pride,
The plighted faith of years.
Ay! she had loved as in a dream,
And woke, at length, to find
How coldly on her spirit gleamed
The dazzling light of mind.
For little was the true, deep love
Of that pure spirit known
To him, the cold, the selfish one,
Who claimed her as his own.
And woke, at length, to find
How coldly on her spirit gleamed
The dazzling light of mind.
For little was the true, deep love
Of that pure spirit known
To him, the cold, the selfish one,
Who claimed her as his own.
And what to him were all her dreams
Of purer, holier life?
Such idle fancies ill became
A meek, submissive wife.
And what were all her yearnings high
For God and “Fatherland”
But vain chimeras, lofty flights,
While Sigurd held her hand?
Of purer, holier life?
Such idle fancies ill became
A meek, submissive wife.
And what were all her yearnings high
For God and “Fatherland”
But vain chimeras, lofty flights,
While Sigurd held her hand?
And then uprose the bitter thought,
“Why bow to his control?
Why sacrifice, before his pride,
The freedom of my soul?
Better to break the golden chain,
And live and love apart,
Than feel the galling, grinding links
Wearing upon my heart.”
“Why bow to his control?
Why sacrifice, before his pride,
The freedom of my soul?
Better to break the golden chain,
And live and love apart,
Than feel the galling, grinding links
Wearing upon my heart.”
He came,—and, with a soft, low voice,
In the pale gleaming light,
She laid her gentle hand in his—
“Sigurd, we part to-night.
Long have these bitter words been kept
Within this heart of mine,
And often have I lonely wept,—
I never can be thine.”
In the pale gleaming light,
She laid her gentle hand in his—
“Sigurd, we part to-night.
Long have these bitter words been kept
Within this heart of mine,
And often have I lonely wept,—
I never can be thine.”
Proudly, with folded arms he stood,
And cold, sarcastic smile—
“Ha! this is but a wayward mood,
An artful woman’s wile.
But this I know: so long—so long
I’ve held thee to thy vow,
That I have made the bond too strong
For thee to break it now.”
And cold, sarcastic smile—
“Ha! this is but a wayward mood,
An artful woman’s wile.
But this I know: so long—so long
I’ve held thee to thy vow,
That I have made the bond too strong
For thee to break it now.”
“You know me not;—my lofty pride
Was hidden from your eyes;
But you have crushed it down so low
It gives me strength to rise.
O! all my bitter, burning thoughts
I may not, dare not tell!
Sigurd, my loved—forever loved!
Farewell! once more, farewell!”
Was hidden from your eyes;
But you have crushed it down so low
It gives me strength to rise.
O! all my bitter, burning thoughts
I may not, dare not tell!
Sigurd, my loved—forever loved!
Farewell! once more, farewell!”
One moment, and those loving arms
Were gently round him thrown;
One moment, and those quivering lips
Pressed lightly to his own:
And then he stood alone! alone!
With eyes too proud for tears;
Yet o’er his stern, cold heart was thrown
The burning blight of years.
Were gently round him thrown;
One moment, and those quivering lips
Pressed lightly to his own:
And then he stood alone! alone!
With eyes too proud for tears;
Yet o’er his stern, cold heart was thrown
The burning blight of years.
THE MEETING OF SIGURD AND GERDA.
“And beautiful now stood they there, man and woman; no longer pale; eye to eye, hand to hand, as equals,—as partners in the light of heaven.”—See Miss Bremer’s “Brothers and Sisters.”
“O, early love! O, early love!
Why does this memory haunt me yet?
Peace! I invoke thee from above,—
I cannot, though I would, forget.
How I have sought, with prayers and tears,
To quench this wasting passion-flame!
But after long, long, weary years,
It burns within my heart the same.”
Why does this memory haunt me yet?
Peace! I invoke thee from above,—
I cannot, though I would, forget.
How I have sought, with prayers and tears,
To quench this wasting passion-flame!
But after long, long, weary years,
It burns within my heart the same.”
She wept—poor, sorrowing Gerda wept,
In the dark pine-wood wandering lone,
While cold the night-winds past her swept,
And bright the stars above her shone.
Poor, suffering dove! her song was hushed,
The blithesome song of other days,
Yet, O! when such true hearts are crushed,
They breathe their holiest, sweetest lays.
In the dark pine-wood wandering lone,
While cold the night-winds past her swept,
And bright the stars above her shone.
Poor, suffering dove! her song was hushed,
The blithesome song of other days,
Yet, O! when such true hearts are crushed,
They breathe their holiest, sweetest lays.
A step was heard. Her heart beat high;
Through the dim shadows of the wood
She glanced with quick and anxious eye—
Lo! Sigurd by her stood;—
And as the moon’s pale, quivering rays
Stole through that lonely place,
He stood, with calm, impassioned gaze
Fixed on her tearful face.
Through the dim shadows of the wood
She glanced with quick and anxious eye—
Lo! Sigurd by her stood;—
And as the moon’s pale, quivering rays
Stole through that lonely place,
He stood, with calm, impassioned gaze
Fixed on her tearful face.
“Gerda,” he said, “I come to speak
A long, a last farewell;
Some distant land and home I seek,
Far, far from thee to dwell.
O, since I lost thee, gentle one,
My truest and my best,
I have rushed madly, blindly on,
Nor dared to think of rest.
A long, a last farewell;
Some distant land and home I seek,
Far, far from thee to dwell.
O, since I lost thee, gentle one,
My truest and my best,
I have rushed madly, blindly on,
Nor dared to think of rest.
“The night that spreads her starry wing
Beyond the Northern Sea,
Does not a deeper darkness bring
Than that which rests on me.
Yet, no! I will not ask thy tears
For my deep tale of woe;
Forgetfulness will come with years;
Gerda—my love—I go!”
Beyond the Northern Sea,
Does not a deeper darkness bring
Than that which rests on me.
Yet, no! I will not ask thy tears
For my deep tale of woe;
Forgetfulness will come with years;
Gerda—my love—I go!”
“Stay! Sigurd, stay! O, why depart?
See, at thy feet I bow;
O, cherished idol of my heart,
Reject—reject me now!”
But not upon the cold, damp ground,
Her bended knee she pressed;
Upheld, and firmly clasped around,
She wept upon his breast.
See, at thy feet I bow;
O, cherished idol of my heart,
Reject—reject me now!”
But not upon the cold, damp ground,
Her bended knee she pressed;
Upheld, and firmly clasped around,
She wept upon his breast.
POEMS
FROM
THE INNER LIFE.
PART II.
The succeeding poems were given under direct spirit influence before public audiences. For many of them I could not obtain the authorship, but for such as I could, the names are given.
THE SPIRIT-CHILD.
BY “JENNIE.”
O, thou holy Heaven above us!
O, ye angel hosts who love us!
Ye alone know how to prove us
By the discipline of life—
That we faint not in endeavor,
But with cheerful courage ever
Rise victorious in the strife.
O, ye angel hosts who love us!
Ye alone know how to prove us
By the discipline of life—
That we faint not in endeavor,
But with cheerful courage ever
Rise victorious in the strife.
O, my sister! O, my brother
I was once a mortal mother;
One sweet blossom, and no other,
Bloomed upon the household tree:
Very fragile, very tender,
Very beautiful and slender—
He was dear as life to me.
I was once a mortal mother;
One sweet blossom, and no other,
Bloomed upon the household tree:
Very fragile, very tender,
Very beautiful and slender—
He was dear as life to me.
All the spring-time’s fresh unfolding,
All of Art’s exquisite moulding,
All that thrills one in beholding,
Centred in that fair young face;
While an angel-tempered gladness,
Almost blending into sadness,
Filled him with a nameless grace.
All of Art’s exquisite moulding,
All that thrills one in beholding,
Centred in that fair young face;
While an angel-tempered gladness,
Almost blending into sadness,
Filled him with a nameless grace.
And I loved him without measure;
O, a ceaseless fount of pleasure
Found I in that little treasure!
And my heart grew good and great,
As I thanked the God of Heaven
That this precious one was given
Thus to cheer my low estate.
O, a ceaseless fount of pleasure
Found I in that little treasure!
And my heart grew good and great,
As I thanked the God of Heaven
That this precious one was given
Thus to cheer my low estate.
But, with all my prayers ascending,
I could hear a low voice blending,
Like some benison descending,
Saying, “Place thy hopes above;
For the test of all affection
Is the full and free rejection
Of all selfishness in love.”
I could hear a low voice blending,
Like some benison descending,
Saying, “Place thy hopes above;
For the test of all affection
Is the full and free rejection
Of all selfishness in love.”
Then I felt a sad foreboding,
All my soul to anguish goading,
All my inward peace corroding;
And my rebel heart begun,
Crying wildly, that I would not
Yield my precious one—I could not
Say, “Thy will, not mine, be done.”
All my soul to anguish goading,
All my inward peace corroding;
And my rebel heart begun,
Crying wildly, that I would not
Yield my precious one—I could not
Say, “Thy will, not mine, be done.”
Spring-time came with genial showers,
Bursting buds and opening flowers,
Singing birds and sunny hours,
Filling heaven and earth with light.
But the Summer—fair deceiver!—
Came with pestilence and fever,
Came my little bud to blight.
Bursting buds and opening flowers,
Singing birds and sunny hours,
Filling heaven and earth with light.
But the Summer—fair deceiver!—
Came with pestilence and fever,
Came my little bud to blight.
O’er my threshold silent stealing,
Chilling every sense and feeling,
All the fount of grief unsealing,
Came the great white angel, Death;
And my flower upon my bosom
Withered, like an early blossom
Stricken by the north wind’s breath.
Chilling every sense and feeling,
All the fount of grief unsealing,
Came the great white angel, Death;
And my flower upon my bosom
Withered, like an early blossom
Stricken by the north wind’s breath.
And I saw him weakly lying,
Heard his parched lips faintly sighing,
Knew that he was dying—dying!
And my love was vain to save!
All my wild, impassioned pleading,
All my fervent interceding,
Could not triumph o’er the grave.
Heard his parched lips faintly sighing,
Knew that he was dying—dying!
And my love was vain to save!
All my wild, impassioned pleading,
All my fervent interceding,
Could not triumph o’er the grave.
Vainly did I crave permission,
That my anxious, tearful vision,
Might behold the land Elysian—
Forth into the unknown dark,
On that broad, mysterious river,
Did the hand of God, the Giver,
Launch that little, fragile bark.
That my anxious, tearful vision,
Might behold the land Elysian—
Forth into the unknown dark,
On that broad, mysterious river,
Did the hand of God, the Giver,
Launch that little, fragile bark.
Then my brain grew wild to madness,
Changing to a sullen sadness,
Tempered by no ray of gladness;
And I cursed the God above,
That, with Heaven all full of angels,
Sounding forth their glad evangels,
He should take my little dove.
Changing to a sullen sadness,
Tempered by no ray of gladness;
And I cursed the God above,
That, with Heaven all full of angels,
Sounding forth their glad evangels,
He should take my little dove.
Then my eyelids knew no sleeping:
Once my midnight watch while keeping,
I had wept beyond all weeping,—
Suddenly there seemed to fall
From my spiritual being,
From my inward sense of seeing,
Scales, as from the eyes of Paul.
Once my midnight watch while keeping,
I had wept beyond all weeping,—
Suddenly there seemed to fall
From my spiritual being,
From my inward sense of seeing,
Scales, as from the eyes of Paul.
Heavenly gales were round me playing,
Angel hands my soul were staying,
And I heard a clear voice saying,
“Come up hither,—come and see!
O, thou sorrow-stricken mother!
Unto thee, as to none other,
Heaven unfolds her mystery.”
Angel hands my soul were staying,
And I heard a clear voice saying,
“Come up hither,—come and see!
O, thou sorrow-stricken mother!
Unto thee, as to none other,
Heaven unfolds her mystery.”
God’s own Spirit seemed to move me,
All the Heaven grew bright above me,
All the angels seemed to love me,—
Waved their white hands as they smiled;
And one, fair as Summer moonlight,
Crowned with starry gems of midnight,
Brought to me my angel child.
All the Heaven grew bright above me,
All the angels seemed to love me,—
Waved their white hands as they smiled;
And one, fair as Summer moonlight,
Crowned with starry gems of midnight,
Brought to me my angel child.
Like a flower in sunshine blowing,
Cheeks, and lips, and eyes were glowing,—
I could see that he was growing
Fairer than the things of earth.
“Thou mayst take him,” said the spirit,
“Back to earth, there to inherit
All the woes of mortal birth.”
Cheeks, and lips, and eyes were glowing,—
I could see that he was growing
Fairer than the things of earth.
“Thou mayst take him,” said the spirit,
“Back to earth, there to inherit
All the woes of mortal birth.”
I had need of no advising;
In divinest strength arising,
All my selfishness despising,—
“Nay!” I cried; “now first I know
What it is to be a mother,
To give being to another
Living soul, for joy or woe.
In divinest strength arising,
All my selfishness despising,—
“Nay!” I cried; “now first I know
What it is to be a mother,
To give being to another
Living soul, for joy or woe.
RECONCILIATION.
God of the Granite and the Rose!
Soul of the Sparrow and the Bee!
The mighty tide of Being flows
Through countless channels, Lord, from thee.
It leaps to life in grass and flowers,
Through every grade of being runs,
Till from Creation’s radiant towers
Its glory flames in stars and suns.
Soul of the Sparrow and the Bee!
The mighty tide of Being flows
Through countless channels, Lord, from thee.
It leaps to life in grass and flowers,
Through every grade of being runs,
Till from Creation’s radiant towers
Its glory flames in stars and suns.
O, ye who sit and gaze on life
With folded hands and fettered will,
Who only see, amid the strife,
The dark supremacy of ill,—
Know, that like birds, and streams, and flowers,
The life that moves you is divine!
Nor time, nor space, nor human powers,
Your Godlike spirit can confine.
With folded hands and fettered will,
Who only see, amid the strife,
The dark supremacy of ill,—
Know, that like birds, and streams, and flowers,
The life that moves you is divine!
Nor time, nor space, nor human powers,
Your Godlike spirit can confine.
Once, in a form of human mould,
Upon this earthly plane I trod;
My faith was weak, my heart was cold,—
I had no hope, I knew not God.
Deep from my being’s cup I quaffed,
With Life’s Elixir brimming o’er,
And madly sought to drain the draught,
That I might die, to live no more!
Upon this earthly plane I trod;
My faith was weak, my heart was cold,—
I had no hope, I knew not God.
Deep from my being’s cup I quaffed,
With Life’s Elixir brimming o’er,
And madly sought to drain the draught,
That I might die, to live no more!
There came an angel to my side—
Not from the bowers of Paradise—
She was mine own, mine earthly bride,
With Heaven’s pure sunshine in her eyes.
She wept and prayed, she knew not why—
Her Faith, not Reason, soared above:
She talked of God and Heaven—and I—
Well—I was happy in her love.
Not from the bowers of Paradise—
She was mine own, mine earthly bride,
With Heaven’s pure sunshine in her eyes.
She wept and prayed, she knew not why—
Her Faith, not Reason, soared above:
She talked of God and Heaven—and I—
Well—I was happy in her love.
Love was my all, my guiding star,
And like a wanderer in the night,
I hailed its radiance from afar,
Because it shone with certain light;
But all those visions, bright and high,
Which the pure-hearted only see,
Of God and Immortality,
Could not reveal their light to me.
And like a wanderer in the night,
I hailed its radiance from afar,
Because it shone with certain light;
But all those visions, bright and high,
Which the pure-hearted only see,
Of God and Immortality,
Could not reveal their light to me.
At length my precious one, my wife,
Held on her bosom’s sacred shrine
A tender form,—an infant life,—
The union of her soul and mine.
O God! above that precious child
First did I breathe thy holy name,
While strong emotions, deep and wild,
Shook like a reed my manly frame.
Held on her bosom’s sacred shrine
A tender form,—an infant life,—
The union of her soul and mine.
O God! above that precious child
First did I breathe thy holy name,
While strong emotions, deep and wild,
Shook like a reed my manly frame.
I prayed for Heaven’s eternal years;
I prayed for light, that I might see;
And even with stern manhood’s tears,
I prayed for faith, O God, in Thee.
O, this poor world seemed far too small
To hold the measure of my love!
They were my God, my Heaven, my All—
My precious wife, my nestling dove.
I prayed for light, that I might see;
And even with stern manhood’s tears,
I prayed for faith, O God, in Thee.
O, this poor world seemed far too small
To hold the measure of my love!
They were my God, my Heaven, my All—
My precious wife, my nestling dove.
Ay, then there came a fearful day,
A day of sorrow and of pain,
When, like a helpless child, I lay,
And fever burned in every vein.
Weeks came and went, they went and came,
Till Faith was Fear, and Hope had died,
And I could only breathe the name
Of the lone watcher at my side.
A day of sorrow and of pain,
When, like a helpless child, I lay,
And fever burned in every vein.
Weeks came and went, they went and came,
Till Faith was Fear, and Hope had died,
And I could only breathe the name
Of the lone watcher at my side.
With patient love that could not fail,
And anxious care that knew no rest,
She sat, like a Madonna, pale,
With our sweet infant on her breast.
For them I beat Life’s stormy wave,
And struggled, face to face, with death;
For them I tarried from the grave,
And firmly held my mortal breath.
And anxious care that knew no rest,
She sat, like a Madonna, pale,
With our sweet infant on her breast.
For them I beat Life’s stormy wave,
And struggled, face to face, with death;
For them I tarried from the grave,
And firmly held my mortal breath.
But faint and weak at length I lay,
While darkness gathered over all—
I felt my pulses fluttering play
Like Autumn leaves about to fall.
My poor, tired heart could do no more,
But yielded the unequal strife;
Ay, then I prayed, as ne’er before,
That I might have Eternal Life.
While darkness gathered over all—
I felt my pulses fluttering play
Like Autumn leaves about to fall.
My poor, tired heart could do no more,
But yielded the unequal strife;
Ay, then I prayed, as ne’er before,
That I might have Eternal Life.
O God! my sainted mother’s face
Gleamed through the deepening shades of death,
And from her lips these words of grace
Fell gently as the evening’s breath:
“Child of my love, I gave to earth
Thy mortal form in grief and pain—
Lo! now, in this, thy second birth,
I lend my strength to thee again.”
Gleamed through the deepening shades of death,
And from her lips these words of grace
Fell gently as the evening’s breath:
“Child of my love, I gave to earth
Thy mortal form in grief and pain—
Lo! now, in this, thy second birth,
I lend my strength to thee again.”
That angel-presence stood revealed,
To her who sat beside my bed;
Our quivering lips Love’s compact sealed,
And one, brief, parting word was said.
Then, leaning like a weary child
My head upon my mother’s breast,
She bore me, changed and reconciled,
To the fair dwellings of the blest.
To her who sat beside my bed;
Our quivering lips Love’s compact sealed,
And one, brief, parting word was said.
Then, leaning like a weary child
My head upon my mother’s breast,
She bore me, changed and reconciled,
To the fair dwellings of the blest.
But oft at morn, or close of day,
I feel the love that toward me yearns,
And earthward, o’er the starry way,
My answering spirit gladly turns.
O Death! O Grave! before Heaven’s light
Thy gloomy phantoms quickly fly;
And man shall learn this truth aright—
That he must change, but shall not die!
I feel the love that toward me yearns,
And earthward, o’er the starry way,
My answering spirit gladly turns.
O Death! O Grave! before Heaven’s light
Thy gloomy phantoms quickly fly;
And man shall learn this truth aright—
That he must change, but shall not die!
Shall change, as doth the summer rose,
The evening light, the closing year;
Shall sink into a sweet repose,
To waken in a happier sphere;—
Shall fall, as falls the harvest grain—
The ripened ears of golden corn,
Which yields its life, that yet again,
Through ceaseless change, it be re-born.
The evening light, the closing year;
Shall sink into a sweet repose,
To waken in a happier sphere;—
Shall fall, as falls the harvest grain—
The ripened ears of golden corn,
Which yields its life, that yet again,
Through ceaseless change, it be re-born.
HOPE FOR THE SORROWING.
[A poem delivered at the funeral service of Mr. Henry L. Kingman, of North Bridgewater, Mass., November, 1862.]