Ye holy ministers of Love,
Blest dwellers in the upper spheres,
In vain we fix our gaze above,
For we are blinded by our tears.
O, tell us to what land unknown
The soul of him we love has flown?
Blest dwellers in the upper spheres,
In vain we fix our gaze above,
For we are blinded by our tears.
O, tell us to what land unknown
The soul of him we love has flown?
He left us when his manly heart
With earnest hope was beating high;
Too soon it seemed for us to part;
Too soon, alas! for him to die.
We have the tenement of clay,
But aye the soul has passed away.
With earnest hope was beating high;
Too soon it seemed for us to part;
Too soon, alas! for him to die.
We have the tenement of clay,
But aye the soul has passed away.
Away, into the unknown dark,
With fearless heart and steady hand,
He calmly launched his fragile bark,
To seek the spirits’ Father Land.
Say, has he reached some distant shore.
To speak with us on earth no more?
With fearless heart and steady hand,
He calmly launched his fragile bark,
To seek the spirits’ Father Land.
Say, has he reached some distant shore.
To speak with us on earth no more?
We gaze into unmeasured space,
And lift our tearful eyes above,
To catch the gleaming of his face,
Or one light whisper of his love.
O God! O Angels! hear our cry,
Nor let our faith in darkness die!
And lift our tearful eyes above,
To catch the gleaming of his face,
Or one light whisper of his love.
O God! O Angels! hear our cry,
Nor let our faith in darkness die!
Hark! for a voice of gentle tone
The answer to our cry hath given,
Soft as Æolian harpstrings blown,
Responsive to the breath of even—
“I have not sought a distant shore;
Lo! I am with you—weep no more.
The answer to our cry hath given,
Soft as Æolian harpstrings blown,
Responsive to the breath of even—
“I have not sought a distant shore;
Lo! I am with you—weep no more.
“Ay! Love is stronger far than death,
And wins the victory o’er the Grave;
Dependent on no mortal breath,
Its mission is to guide and save.
Above the wrecks of Death and Time,
It triumphs, changeless and sublime.
And wins the victory o’er the Grave;
Dependent on no mortal breath,
Its mission is to guide and save.
Above the wrecks of Death and Time,
It triumphs, changeless and sublime.
“Still shall my love its vigils keep,
True as the needle to the pole,
For Death is not a dreamless sleep,
Nor is the Grave man’s final goal.
The larger growth,—the life divine,—
All that I hoped or wished, are mine.”
True as the needle to the pole,
For Death is not a dreamless sleep,
Nor is the Grave man’s final goal.
The larger growth,—the life divine,—
All that I hoped or wished, are mine.”
COMPENSATION.
Out in the desolate midnight,
Out in the cold and rain,
With the bitter, bleak winds of winter
Driving across the plain—
In the ghastly gloom of the churchyard,
Crouching behind a stone,
Fleeing from what is called Justice,
I was safe with the dead alone.
Out in the cold and rain,
With the bitter, bleak winds of winter
Driving across the plain—
In the ghastly gloom of the churchyard,
Crouching behind a stone,
Fleeing from what is called Justice,
I was safe with the dead alone.
All of the madness and evil
That into my nature was cast;
All of the demon or devil
Had filled up its measure at last.
Blood, on my hands, of a brother!
Blood—an indelible stain!
Burning, and smarting, and eating
Into my heart and my brain.
That into my nature was cast;
All of the demon or devil
Had filled up its measure at last.
Blood, on my hands, of a brother!
Blood—an indelible stain!
Burning, and smarting, and eating
Into my heart and my brain.
In woe and iniquity shapen,
Conceived by my mother in sin,
Forecast in a soil of pollution.
Did the life of my being begin.
I chose not the nature within me;
I was fated and fashioned by birth;
Foreordained to the darkness and evil,
The sins and the sorrows of earth!
Conceived by my mother in sin,
Forecast in a soil of pollution.
Did the life of my being begin.
I chose not the nature within me;
I was fated and fashioned by birth;
Foreordained to the darkness and evil,
The sins and the sorrows of earth!
The World was my foe ere it knew me;
It scattered its snares in my path:
Like a serpent, it charmed and it drew me,
Then met me with judgment and wrath!
I saw that the strong crushed the weaker,
That wickedness won in the strife,
And the greatest of crimes and of curses
Was the lot of a beggar in life!
It scattered its snares in my path:
Like a serpent, it charmed and it drew me,
Then met me with judgment and wrath!
I saw that the strong crushed the weaker,
That wickedness won in the strife,
And the greatest of crimes and of curses
Was the lot of a beggar in life!
E’en the arm of God’s mercy seemed shortened,
For all that could gladden or save;
The child of my love, and its mother,
Were laid in the pitiless grave!
Then, weakened and wasted by hunger—
Ay, famished without and within—
All homeless, and hopeless, and friendless,
O, what was there left me but sin?
For all that could gladden or save;
The child of my love, and its mother,
Were laid in the pitiless grave!
Then, weakened and wasted by hunger—
Ay, famished without and within—
All homeless, and hopeless, and friendless,
O, what was there left me but sin?
I met in the wood-path a lordling,
Arrayed in his garments of pride,
And, like Moses who slew the Egyptian,
I smote him so sore that he died!
O, the blood on my hands and my garments!
O, the terrible face of the dead!
His gold could not tempt me to linger—
I turned in my horror, and fled!
Arrayed in his garments of pride,
And, like Moses who slew the Egyptian,
I smote him so sore that he died!
O, the blood on my hands and my garments!
O, the terrible face of the dead!
His gold could not tempt me to linger—
I turned in my horror, and fled!
I fled, but a terrible phantom
Pursued like a demon of wrath;
In the forest, the field, or the churchyard,
Its footsteps were close on my path;
And there, on the grave of my loved ones,
As freezing and famished I lay,
I was seized by the human avenger,
And borne to the judgment away!
Pursued like a demon of wrath;
In the forest, the field, or the churchyard,
Its footsteps were close on my path;
And there, on the grave of my loved ones,
As freezing and famished I lay,
I was seized by the human avenger,
And borne to the judgment away!
O, the prison! the sentence! the gallows!
That last fearful struggle for breath!
The rush, and the roar, and confusion,
The depth and the darkness of death!
O man! I have sinned and have suffered;
The climax of evil is past;
But the justice of time may determine
That you were more guilty at last!
That last fearful struggle for breath!
The rush, and the roar, and confusion,
The depth and the darkness of death!
O man! I have sinned and have suffered;
The climax of evil is past;
But the justice of time may determine
That you were more guilty at last!
Then long did I struggle with phantoms,
And wandered in darkness and night,
Till there came to my soul, in its prison,
The form of an Angel of Light.
I thought, in my blindness and darkness,
That he was the Infinite God,
Who had come in the might of his vengeance
To smite with his merciless rod.
And wandered in darkness and night,
Till there came to my soul, in its prison,
The form of an Angel of Light.
I thought, in my blindness and darkness,
That he was the Infinite God,
Who had come in the might of his vengeance
To smite with his merciless rod.
So I cursed Him—and cursed Him—and cursed Him!
That He, in his greatness and power,
Had summoned my soul into being,
And made me to suffer one hour.
I cursed Him for all of my sorrow,
For all of my weakness and sin,
For all of my hatred and evil,
For darkness without and within.
That He, in his greatness and power,
Had summoned my soul into being,
And made me to suffer one hour.
I cursed Him for all of my sorrow,
For all of my weakness and sin,
For all of my hatred and evil,
For darkness without and within.
My words were all molten and glowing,
As if from a furnace they came,
And the breath of my wrath made them hotter,
Till they burned with the fierceness of flame.
Then a light that was in me grew brighter,
Like sunshine poured into the heart;
I felt all my burdens grow lighter,
And the dross from my nature depart.
As if from a furnace they came,
And the breath of my wrath made them hotter,
Till they burned with the fierceness of flame.
Then a light that was in me grew brighter,
Like sunshine poured into the heart;
I felt all my burdens grow lighter,
And the dross from my nature depart.
“My brother,” replied the bright Angel,
“Let the name of the Highest be blessed!
Lo! he renders thee blessing for cursing!
His will and His way are the best.
Thy soul in His sight hath been precious,
Since the birth of thy being began;
Thou art judged by the need of thy nature,
And not by the standard of man.”
“Let the name of the Highest be blessed!
Lo! he renders thee blessing for cursing!
His will and His way are the best.
Thy soul in His sight hath been precious,
Since the birth of thy being began;
Thou art judged by the need of thy nature,
And not by the standard of man.”
THE EAGLE OF FREEDOM.
O, Land of our glory, our boast, and our pride!
Where the brave and the fearless for Freedom have died,
How clear is the lustre that beams from thy name!
How bright on thy brow are the laurels of fame!
The stars of thy Union still burn in the sky,
And the scream of thine Eagle is heard from on high!
His eyrie is built where no foe can invade,
Nor traitors prevail with the brand and the blade!
Where the brave and the fearless for Freedom have died,
How clear is the lustre that beams from thy name!
How bright on thy brow are the laurels of fame!
The stars of thy Union still burn in the sky,
And the scream of thine Eagle is heard from on high!
His eyrie is built where no foe can invade,
Nor traitors prevail with the brand and the blade!
CHORUS.
The Eagle of Freedom, in danger and night,
Keeps watch o’er our flag from his star-circled height.
From mountain and valley, from hill-top and sea,
Three cheers for the Eagle, the Bird of the Free!
Hurrah! Hurrah!
Hurrah for the Eagle, the Bird of the Free!
Keeps watch o’er our flag from his star-circled height.
From mountain and valley, from hill-top and sea,
Three cheers for the Eagle, the Bird of the Free!
Hurrah! Hurrah!
Hurrah for the Eagle, the Bird of the Free!
Mount up, O thou Eagle! and rend, in thy flight,
The war-cloud that hides our broad banner from sight!
Guard, guard it from danger, though war-rent and worn,
And see that no star from its azure is torn!
Keep thy breast to the storm, and thine eye on the sun,
Till, true to our motto, THE MANY ARE ONE!
Till the red rage of war with its tumult shall cease,
And the dove shall return with the olive of peace.
The war-cloud that hides our broad banner from sight!
Guard, guard it from danger, though war-rent and worn,
And see that no star from its azure is torn!
Keep thy breast to the storm, and thine eye on the sun,
Till, true to our motto, THE MANY ARE ONE!
Till the red rage of war with its tumult shall cease,
And the dove shall return with the olive of peace.
CHORUS.
The Eagle of Freedom, in danger and night,
Keeps watch o’er our flag from his star-lighted height.
From mountain and valley, from hill-side and sea,
Three cheers for the Eagle, the Bird of the Free!
Hurrah! Hurrah!
Hurrah for the Eagle, the Bird of the Free!
Keeps watch o’er our flag from his star-lighted height.
From mountain and valley, from hill-side and sea,
Three cheers for the Eagle, the Bird of the Free!
Hurrah! Hurrah!
Hurrah for the Eagle, the Bird of the Free!
O, sons of the mighty, the true, and the brave!
The souls of your heroes rest not in the grave:
The holy libation to Liberty poured,
Hath streamed, not in vain, from the blood-crimsoned sword.
Henceforth, with your Star-Spangled Banner unfurled,
Your might shall be felt to the ends of the world,
And rising Republics, like nebulæ, gleam,
Wherever the stars of your nation shall beam.
The souls of your heroes rest not in the grave:
The holy libation to Liberty poured,
Hath streamed, not in vain, from the blood-crimsoned sword.
Henceforth, with your Star-Spangled Banner unfurled,
Your might shall be felt to the ends of the world,
And rising Republics, like nebulæ, gleam,
Wherever the stars of your nation shall beam.
CHORUS.
MISTRESS GLENARE.
BY “MARIAN.”
A virtuous woman is Mistress Glenare—
Or, at least, so the world in its judgment would say;—
With an orderly walk and a circumspect air,
She never departs from the popular way.
Every word that she speaks is well measured and weighed;
Her friends are selected with scrupulous care;
And in all that she does is her prudence displayed,
For a virtuous woman is Mistress Glenare!
Or, at least, so the world in its judgment would say;—
With an orderly walk and a circumspect air,
She never departs from the popular way.
Every word that she speaks is well measured and weighed;
Her friends are selected with scrupulous care;
And in all that she does is her prudence displayed,
For a virtuous woman is Mistress Glenare!
Her youth has departed, and with it has fled
The impulse which gives to the blood a new start,
Which oftentimes turns from the reasoning head,
To trust to the wisdom of God in the heart.
Thus the robes of her purity never are stained,
And her feet are withheld from the pitfall and snare;
Where nothing is ventured, there nothing is gained:
O, a virtuous woman is Mistress Glenare!
The impulse which gives to the blood a new start,
Which oftentimes turns from the reasoning head,
To trust to the wisdom of God in the heart.
Thus the robes of her purity never are stained,
And her feet are withheld from the pitfall and snare;
Where nothing is ventured, there nothing is gained:
O, a virtuous woman is Mistress Glenare!
She makes no distinction of sinners from sin;
Her words are like arrows, her tongue is a rod;
She sees no excuse for the evil within,
But condemns with the zeal of a partialist God!
On a background of darkness, of sorrow and shame,
Her own reputation looks stainless and fair;
So she builds up her fame, through her neighbors’ bad name:
O, a virtuous woman is Mistress Glenare!
Her words are like arrows, her tongue is a rod;
She sees no excuse for the evil within,
But condemns with the zeal of a partialist God!
On a background of darkness, of sorrow and shame,
Her own reputation looks stainless and fair;
So she builds up her fame, through her neighbors’ bad name:
O, a virtuous woman is Mistress Glenare!
She peeps and she listens, she watches and waits,
Nor Satan himself is more active than she
To expose in poor sinners the faults and bad traits,
Which she fears that the Lord might not happen to see.
When the Father of Spirits looks down from above
On the good and the evil, the frail and the fair,
How must he regard, with particular love,
This virtuous woman—good Mistress Glenare!
Nor Satan himself is more active than she
To expose in poor sinners the faults and bad traits,
Which she fears that the Lord might not happen to see.
When the Father of Spirits looks down from above
On the good and the evil, the frail and the fair,
How must he regard, with particular love,
This virtuous woman—good Mistress Glenare!
O, Mistress Glenare! in the drama of life
You are acting a very respectable part;
You have known just enough of its envious strife
To deceive both the world and your own foolish heart.
But say, in some moment of clear common sense,
Did you never in truth and sincerity dare
To ask the plain question, aside from pretence,
How you looked to the angels, dear Mistress Glenare?
You are acting a very respectable part;
You have known just enough of its envious strife
To deceive both the world and your own foolish heart.
But say, in some moment of clear common sense,
Did you never in truth and sincerity dare
To ask the plain question, aside from pretence,
How you looked to the angels, dear Mistress Glenare?
The glory of God has enlightened their eyes:
No longer, through darkness, they see but in part,
And the robes of your righteousness do not suffice
To cover the lack of true love in the heart.
You look shabby, and filthy, and ragged, and mean—
E’en with those you condemn, you but poorly compare!
Go! wash you in Charity till you are clean;
You will change for the better, dear Mistress Glenare.
No longer, through darkness, they see but in part,
And the robes of your righteousness do not suffice
To cover the lack of true love in the heart.
You look shabby, and filthy, and ragged, and mean—
E’en with those you condemn, you but poorly compare!
Go! wash you in Charity till you are clean;
You will change for the better, dear Mistress Glenare.
Your thoughts have been run in the popular mould,
Like wax that is plastic and easily melts;
Till now, like a nondescript, lo, and behold!
You are neither yourself, nor yet any one else.
Of tender compassion, forgiveness, and love,
Your nature has not a respectable share;
You are three parts of serpent, and one of the dove—
Very badly proportioned, dear Mistress Glenare.
Like wax that is plastic and easily melts;
Till now, like a nondescript, lo, and behold!
You are neither yourself, nor yet any one else.
Of tender compassion, forgiveness, and love,
Your nature has not a respectable share;
You are three parts of serpent, and one of the dove—
Very badly proportioned, dear Mistress Glenare.
Your noblest and purest affections have died,
Like summer-dried roses, your spirit within;
Your heart has grown arid, and scarce is supplied
With sufficient vitality even to sin.
But would you be true to your virtuous name,
There is one we commend to your tenderest care;
To deal with her wisely will add to your fame:
That poor sinful woman is—Mistress Glenare.
Like summer-dried roses, your spirit within;
Your heart has grown arid, and scarce is supplied
With sufficient vitality even to sin.
But would you be true to your virtuous name,
There is one we commend to your tenderest care;
To deal with her wisely will add to your fame:
That poor sinful woman is—Mistress Glenare.
LITTLE JOHNNY.
[A poem delivered by Miss Lizzie Doten at the close of a lecture in Springfield, May 10, and addressed to the parents of Little Johnny—Mr. and Mrs. Thomas A. Denison, of Chicopee, Mass.]
Sing not, O blessed angels!
To those who truly mourn,
But come with gifts of healing,
For heart-strings freshly torn.
Ah! human hearts are tender,
And wounds of love are deep:
Sing not, O blessed angels!
But “weep with those who weep.”
To those who truly mourn,
But come with gifts of healing,
For heart-strings freshly torn.
Ah! human hearts are tender,
And wounds of love are deep:
Sing not, O blessed angels!
But “weep with those who weep.”
Come not, O spirit-teachers!
With wisdom from above,
But come with soft, low whispers
Of sympathy and love.
Truths seem uncertain shadows
Beneath the clouds of care;
Come, then, in friendly silence,
And strengthen them to bear.
With wisdom from above,
But come with soft, low whispers
Of sympathy and love.
Truths seem uncertain shadows
Beneath the clouds of care;
Come, then, in friendly silence,
And strengthen them to bear.
What will ye bring, O angels,
To soothe the troubled breast?
“We will bring the cherished loved one
From the mansions of the blest.
Like a wandering dove returning,
He shall nestle in each heart;
They will feel his blesséd presence,
And their sorrow shall depart.
To soothe the troubled breast?
“We will bring the cherished loved one
From the mansions of the blest.
Like a wandering dove returning,
He shall nestle in each heart;
They will feel his blesséd presence,
And their sorrow shall depart.
“We will lead them from their darkness
Out to the shining light,
And scenes of heavenly beauty
Shall greet their longing sight.
There shall they see their loved one,
Free from his earthly pain;
Their souls shall cease from sorrow,
And shall ask him not again.
Out to the shining light,
And scenes of heavenly beauty
Shall greet their longing sight.
There shall they see their loved one,
Free from his earthly pain;
Their souls shall cease from sorrow,
And shall ask him not again.
“O, we only opened gently
His little prison door;
He stepped into the sunshine,
And then returned no more.
He dwells not now in weakness,
In the spirit’s narrow cell,
But yet remains forever
To those who loved him well.”
His little prison door;
He stepped into the sunshine,
And then returned no more.
He dwells not now in weakness,
In the spirit’s narrow cell,
But yet remains forever
To those who loved him well.”
What will ye bring, O teachers!
To those who suffer loss?
“We will bring them faith, and patience,
And strength to bear their cross,—
To bear it bravely, calmly,
Although the way seem long,
Till hearts that bled with anguish
Shall burst into a song.
To those who suffer loss?
“We will bring them faith, and patience,
And strength to bear their cross,—
To bear it bravely, calmly,
Although the way seem long,
Till hearts that bled with anguish
Shall burst into a song.
“BIRDIE’S” SPIRIT-SONG.
[At the conclusion of a lecture in Boston, the following poem was addressed to the chairman (Mr. L. B. Wilson). It purported to come from Anna Cora, Mr. Wilson’s only child, who passed to the spirit-world at the age of 12 years and 7 months. She was always called by the pet name “Birdie.”]
With rosebuds in my hand,
Fresh from the Summer-land,
Father, I come and stand
Close by your side.
You cannot see me here,
Or feel my presence near,
And yet your “Birdie” dear
Never has died.
Fresh from the Summer-land,
Father, I come and stand
Close by your side.
You cannot see me here,
Or feel my presence near,
And yet your “Birdie” dear
Never has died.
O, no! for angels bright,
Out of the blesséd light,
Shone on my wondering sight,
Singing, “We come!
Lamb for the fold above—
Tender, young, nestling dove—
Safe in our arms of love,
Haste to thy home.”
Out of the blesséd light,
Shone on my wondering sight,
Singing, “We come!
Lamb for the fold above—
Tender, young, nestling dove—
Safe in our arms of love,
Haste to thy home.”
Mother! I could not stay;
In a sweet dream I lay,
Wafted to Heaven away,
Far from the night;
Then, with a glad surprise,
Did I unclose my eyes,
Under those cloudless skies,
Smiling with light!
In a sweet dream I lay,
Wafted to Heaven away,
Far from the night;
Then, with a glad surprise,
Did I unclose my eyes,
Under those cloudless skies,
Smiling with light!
O! were you with me there,
Free from your earthly care,
All of my joy to share,
I were more blest.
But it is best to stay
Here in the earthly way,
Till the good angels say,
“Come to your rest!”
Free from your earthly care,
All of my joy to share,
I were more blest.
But it is best to stay
Here in the earthly way,
Till the good angels say,
“Come to your rest!”
MY SPIRIT-HOME.
“We find the following beautiful stanzas in the Evening Courier, published in Portland, Me. They were composed in spirit-life by Miss A. W. Sprague, and spoken under spirit influence by Miss Lizzie Doten, at the close of her lecture in that city, on Sunday evening, March 22d. The lines are evidently from the spirit of Miss Sprague, who passed to the spirit-world last summer, from her home in Vermont, as there are allusions in it to incidents which took place during her illness, in Oswego, N. Y., about a year since. Allusion is also made to a poem written by her and published in the Banner, and also to another poem of hers, ‘I wait, I wait at the golden gate.’”—Banner of Light.
I come, I come from my spirit-home,
Like a bird in the early spring,
To the loved ones here, whom my heart holds dear,
A message of love to bring.
O, the heavens are wide, but they cannot divide
The spirits whom love makes free!
The green old earth, and the land of my birth,
With its homes, are still dear to me.
Like a bird in the early spring,
To the loved ones here, whom my heart holds dear,
A message of love to bring.
O, the heavens are wide, but they cannot divide
The spirits whom love makes free!
The green old earth, and the land of my birth,
With its homes, are still dear to me.
The phantoms of pain in my burning brain
Have fled from the Heaven’s clear light;
I lie no more on the lake’s lone shore,
In the fever dreams of night.
O, it was not late when I fled from fate,
And that which the world calls sin;
No longer “I wait at the golden gate,”
For the angels have let me in.
Have fled from the Heaven’s clear light;
I lie no more on the lake’s lone shore,
In the fever dreams of night.
O, it was not late when I fled from fate,
And that which the world calls sin;
No longer “I wait at the golden gate,”
For the angels have let me in.
O, not too soon, though at life’s high noon,
Was the close of my earthly day;
As the roses fade, ere the evening shade,
I passed from the earth away.
And I knew not the blight of the bitter night,
Which withers the autumn flowers,
Or the lengthening years, with their weight of fears,
That burden the spirit’s powers.
Was the close of my earthly day;
As the roses fade, ere the evening shade,
I passed from the earth away.
And I knew not the blight of the bitter night,
Which withers the autumn flowers,
Or the lengthening years, with their weight of fears,
That burden the spirit’s powers.
In the forest wide, by the lake’s green side,
The angels had whispered low;
From “over the sea” they had called to me,
And I knew that I soon must go;
But I felt no fear when I knew they were near,
Nor shrank from the narrow way,
For I caught faint gleams of the crystal streams,
And the light of the heavenly day.
The angels had whispered low;
From “over the sea” they had called to me,
And I knew that I soon must go;
But I felt no fear when I knew they were near,
Nor shrank from the narrow way,
For I caught faint gleams of the crystal streams,
And the light of the heavenly day.
O! the angels bright, with their robes of light,
The clasp of each gentle hand,
And the eyes that smiled on earth’s weary child,
As I entered the better land!
But words are weak when the soul would speak
Of the angel-home above;
Faint visions alone are to man made known,
Of that dwelling of light and love.
The clasp of each gentle hand,
And the eyes that smiled on earth’s weary child,
As I entered the better land!
But words are weak when the soul would speak
Of the angel-home above;
Faint visions alone are to man made known,
Of that dwelling of light and love.
My home is there, in that world so fair,
But the space is not deep or wide
Which lies between this earthly scene
And the home on the other side.
The thought of love, like a carrier dove,
Shall the heart’s fond message bear,
And the angel bands, with their willing hands,
Shall answer each earnest prayer.
But the space is not deep or wide
Which lies between this earthly scene
And the home on the other side.
The thought of love, like a carrier dove,
Shall the heart’s fond message bear,
And the angel bands, with their willing hands,
Shall answer each earnest prayer.
Fare ye well! farewell! My spirit can dwell
In the earthly form no more;
But whither I go, and the way, ye shall know,
To your home on the other shore.
Soon “over the sea” ye shall walk with me,
On the hills by the angels trod,
In the garments white, of the sons of light,
In the freedom and peace of God.
In the earthly form no more;
But whither I go, and the way, ye shall know,
To your home on the other shore.
Soon “over the sea” ye shall walk with me,
On the hills by the angels trod,
In the garments white, of the sons of light,
In the freedom and peace of God.
I STILL LIVE.
[Given under the inspiration of Miss A. W. Sprague, at the conclusion of a lecture in Philadelphia, October 25, 1863.]
O Thou, whose love is changeless,
Both now and evermore;
Source of all conscious being!
Thy goodness I adore.
Lord, I would ever praise Thee,
For all Thy love can give;
But most of all, O Father!
I thank Thee that I live.
Both now and evermore;
Source of all conscious being!
Thy goodness I adore.
Lord, I would ever praise Thee,
For all Thy love can give;
But most of all, O Father!
I thank Thee that I live.
I live! O ye who loved me!
Your faith was not in vain;
Back through the shadowy valley
I come to you again.
Safe in the love that guides me,
With fearless feet I tread—
My home is with the angels—
O, say not I am dead!
Your faith was not in vain;
Back through the shadowy valley
I come to you again.
Safe in the love that guides me,
With fearless feet I tread—
My home is with the angels—
O, say not I am dead!
Not dead! O, no, but lifted
Above all earthly strife;
Now first I know the meaning,
And feel the power of life—
The power to rise uncumbered
By woe, or want, or care;
To breathe fresh inspiration
From pure, celestial air;—
Above all earthly strife;
Now first I know the meaning,
And feel the power of life—
The power to rise uncumbered
By woe, or want, or care;
To breathe fresh inspiration
From pure, celestial air;—
To feel that all the tempests
Of human life have passed,
And that my ark, in safety
Rests on the mount at last;
To send my soul’s great longings,
Like Noah’s dove, abroad,
And find them swift returning,
With signs of peace from God;—
Of human life have passed,
And that my ark, in safety
Rests on the mount at last;
To send my soul’s great longings,
Like Noah’s dove, abroad,
And find them swift returning,
With signs of peace from God;—
To soar in fearless freedom
Through broad, blue, boundless skies
And catch the radiant gleaming
Of love-lit, angel eyes;
To feel the Father’s presence
Around me, near or far,
And see His radiant glory
Stretch onward, star by star;—
Through broad, blue, boundless skies
And catch the radiant gleaming
Of love-lit, angel eyes;
To feel the Father’s presence
Around me, near or far,
And see His radiant glory
Stretch onward, star by star;—
To feel those grand upliftings
That know not space nor time;
To hear all discords ending
In harmony sublime;
To know that sin and error
Are dimly understood,
And that which man calls Evil
Is undeveloped Good;—
That know not space nor time;
To hear all discords ending
In harmony sublime;
To know that sin and error
Are dimly understood,
And that which man calls Evil
Is undeveloped Good;—
To stand in spell-bound rapture
On some celestial height,
And see God’s glorious sunshine
Dispel the shades of night;
To feel that all creation
With love and joy is rife;—
This, O my earthly loved ones,
This is Eternal Life!
On some celestial height,
And see God’s glorious sunshine
Dispel the shades of night;
To feel that all creation
With love and joy is rife;—
This, O my earthly loved ones,
This is Eternal Life!
There, eyes that closed in darkness
Shall open to the morn;
And those whom death had stricken,
Shall find themselves new-born;
The lame shall leap with gladness,
The blind rejoice to see;
The slave shall know no master,
And the prisoner shall be free.
Shall open to the morn;
And those whom death had stricken,
Shall find themselves new-born;
The lame shall leap with gladness,
The blind rejoice to see;
The slave shall know no master,
And the prisoner shall be free.
There, the worn and heavy-laden
Their burdens shall lay down;
There, crosses, borne in meekness,
At length shall win the crown;
And lonely hearts that famished
For sympathy and love,
Shall find a free affection
In the angel-home above.
Their burdens shall lay down;
There, crosses, borne in meekness,
At length shall win the crown;
And lonely hearts that famished
For sympathy and love,
Shall find a free affection
In the angel-home above.
O, children of our Father!
Weep not for those who pass,
Like rose-leaves gently scattered,
Like dew-drops from the grass.
Ay, look not down in sadness,
But fix your gaze on high;
They only dropped their mantles—
Their souls can never die.
Weep not for those who pass,
Like rose-leaves gently scattered,
Like dew-drops from the grass.
Ay, look not down in sadness,
But fix your gaze on high;
They only dropped their mantles—
Their souls can never die.
They live! and still unbroken
Is that magnetic chain,
Which, in your tearful blindness,
You thought was rent in twain.
That chain of love was fashioned
By more than human art,
And every link is welded
So firm it cannot part.
Is that magnetic chain,
Which, in your tearful blindness,
You thought was rent in twain.
That chain of love was fashioned
By more than human art,
And every link is welded
So firm it cannot part.
They live! but O, not idly,
To fold their hands to rest,
For they who love God truly,
Are they who serve him best.
Love lightens all their labor,
And makes all duty sweet;
Their hands are never weary,
Nor way-worn are their feet.
To fold their hands to rest,
For they who love God truly,
Are they who serve him best.
Love lightens all their labor,
And makes all duty sweet;
Their hands are never weary,
Nor way-worn are their feet.
[The two following poems were given under an influence purporting to be that of Shakspeare.]
LIFE.
“To be, or not to be,” is not “the question;”
There is no choice of Life. Ay, mark it well!—
For Death is but another name for Change.
The weary shuffle off their mortal coil,
And think to slumber in eternal night.
But, lo! the man, though dead, is living still;
Unclothed, is clothed upon, and his Mortality
Is swallowed up of Life.
There is no choice of Life. Ay, mark it well!—
For Death is but another name for Change.
The weary shuffle off their mortal coil,
And think to slumber in eternal night.
But, lo! the man, though dead, is living still;
Unclothed, is clothed upon, and his Mortality
Is swallowed up of Life.
“He babbles o’ green fields, then falls asleep,”
And straight awakes amid eternal verdure.
Fairer than “dreams of a Midsummer’s Night,”
The fields Elysian stretch before him.
No “Tempest” rends the ever peaceful bowers
Of asphodel, and fadeless amaranth;
No hot sirocco blows with poisonous breath;
No midnight frights him with its goblins grim,
Presaging sudden death. No Macbeth there,
Mad with ambition, plotteth damning deeds;
No Hamlet, haunted by his father’s ghost,
Stalks wildly forth intent on vengeance dire.
The curse of Cain on earth is consummate,
And knows no resurrection. Spirits learn
That spirit is immortal, and no poisoned cup,
Or dagger’s thrust, or sting of deadly asp,
Can rob it of its Godlike attribute.
This mortal garb may be as full of wounds
And bloody rents as royal Cæsar’s mantle;
Yet that which made it man or Cæsar liveth still.
And straight awakes amid eternal verdure.
Fairer than “dreams of a Midsummer’s Night,”
The fields Elysian stretch before him.
No “Tempest” rends the ever peaceful bowers
Of asphodel, and fadeless amaranth;
No hot sirocco blows with poisonous breath;
No midnight frights him with its goblins grim,
Presaging sudden death. No Macbeth there,
Mad with ambition, plotteth damning deeds;
No Hamlet, haunted by his father’s ghost,
Stalks wildly forth intent on vengeance dire.
The curse of Cain on earth is consummate,
And knows no resurrection. Spirits learn
That spirit is immortal, and no poisoned cup,
Or dagger’s thrust, or sting of deadly asp,
Can rob it of its Godlike attribute.
This mortal garb may be as full of wounds
And bloody rents as royal Cæsar’s mantle;
Yet that which made it man or Cæsar liveth still.
Man learns, in this Valhalla of his soul,
To love, nor ever finds “Love’s Labor Lost.”
No two-faced Falstaff proffers double suit;
No Desdemona mourns Iago’s art;
And every Romeo finds his Juliet.
The stroke of Death is but a kindly frost,
Which cracks the shell, and leaves the kernel room
To germinate. What most consummate fools
This fear of death doth make us! Reason plays
The craven unto sense, and in her fear
Chooses the slow and slavish death of life,
Rather than freedom in the life of death.
“Thus Ignorance makes cowards of us all,”
And blinds us to our being’s best estate.
Madly we cling to life through nameless ills,
Pinched by necessity, and scourged by fate,
Fainting in heat and freezing in the cold,
While war, and pestilence, and sore distress,
Fever and famine, fire and flood, combine
To drive the spirit from its wreck of clay.
To love, nor ever finds “Love’s Labor Lost.”
No two-faced Falstaff proffers double suit;
No Desdemona mourns Iago’s art;
And every Romeo finds his Juliet.
The stroke of Death is but a kindly frost,
Which cracks the shell, and leaves the kernel room
To germinate. What most consummate fools
This fear of death doth make us! Reason plays
The craven unto sense, and in her fear
Chooses the slow and slavish death of life,
Rather than freedom in the life of death.
“Thus Ignorance makes cowards of us all,”
And blinds us to our being’s best estate.
Madly we cling to life through nameless ills,
Pinched by necessity, and scourged by fate,
Fainting in heat and freezing in the cold,
While war, and pestilence, and sore distress,
Fever and famine, fire and flood, combine
To drive the spirit from its wreck of clay.
O, poor Humanity! How full of blots,
And stains, and pains, and miseries thou art!
Here let me be thine Antony, and plead
Thy cause against the slayers of thy peace.
Though wounded, yet thou art not dead, thou child
Of Immortality—thou heir of God!
He who would slay thee, be he brute or Brutus,
Plunges the dagger in his own vile heart.
And yet thy wounds are piteous. I could weep
That aught so fair from the Creator’s hand
Should be so marred and mangled, like a lamb
Torn by the ravening wolves. Here, let me take
Thy mantle, pierced with gaping, ghastly wounds,
From daggers clutched by ingrate hands. O Truth!
How many, in thy sacred name, have slain
Humanity, thinking they did God service!
Rome, and not Cæsar—Doctrines, and not Men.
And stains, and pains, and miseries thou art!
Here let me be thine Antony, and plead
Thy cause against the slayers of thy peace.
Though wounded, yet thou art not dead, thou child
Of Immortality—thou heir of God!
He who would slay thee, be he brute or Brutus,
Plunges the dagger in his own vile heart.
And yet thy wounds are piteous. I could weep
That aught so fair from the Creator’s hand
Should be so marred and mangled, like a lamb
Torn by the ravening wolves. Here, let me take
Thy mantle, pierced with gaping, ghastly wounds,
From daggers clutched by ingrate hands. O Truth!
How many, in thy sacred name, have slain
Humanity, thinking they did God service!
Rome, and not Cæsar—Doctrines, and not Men.
I cannot count the wounds which lust for power,
And wealth, and place, and precedence have made.
But, O! the keenest, deepest, deadliest stabs
Of all, were made by false Philosophy
And false Theology combined—
Philosophy, that knew not what it did;
Theology, that did not what it knew.
See here! This rent made by the fear of God,
That gracious God, whose “mercy seasons justice,”
Who feeds the raven, clothes the lilies, heeds
The sparrow when it falls, and sends his rain
Alike upon the evil and the good.
And yet they were all “honorable men”
Who taught this doctrine—“honorable men!”
Whose failing was a lack of common sense.
And wealth, and place, and precedence have made.
But, O! the keenest, deepest, deadliest stabs
Of all, were made by false Philosophy
And false Theology combined—
Philosophy, that knew not what it did;
Theology, that did not what it knew.
See here! This rent made by the fear of God,
That gracious God, whose “mercy seasons justice,”
Who feeds the raven, clothes the lilies, heeds
The sparrow when it falls, and sends his rain
Alike upon the evil and the good.
And yet they were all “honorable men”
Who taught this doctrine—“honorable men!”
Whose failing was a lack of common sense.
And, lo! here is another—Fear of Truth—
Blind Superstition made this horrid rent,
And Bigotry quick followed up the thrust.
O, ’tis an eye weeping great tears of blood!
An eagle eye, that dared to love the light
Which Bigotry and Superstition feared,
Lest it should make their deeds of evil plain.
Thus is it, he who dares to see a Truth
Not recognized in creeds, must die the death.
But noon-day never stayed for bats and owls,
And Truth’s clear light shall yet arise and shine.
Blind Superstition made this horrid rent,
And Bigotry quick followed up the thrust.
O, ’tis an eye weeping great tears of blood!
An eagle eye, that dared to love the light
Which Bigotry and Superstition feared,
Lest it should make their deeds of evil plain.
Thus is it, he who dares to see a Truth
Not recognized in creeds, must die the death.
But noon-day never stayed for bats and owls,
And Truth’s clear light shall yet arise and shine.
See here: another wound—The fear of Death—
That blesséd consummation of this life,
Which soothes all pain, makes good all loss, revives
The weak, gives rest and peace, makes free the slave,
Levels all past distinctions, and doth place
The beggar on a footing with the king.
O, poor Humanity! those who conspired
To slay thee, through exceeding love for God,
And for the glory of His mighty name,
Smote at the very centre of thy peace,
And damning doubts, like daggers’ thrusts, attest
How zealously they aimed each cruel blow.
That blesséd consummation of this life,
Which soothes all pain, makes good all loss, revives
The weak, gives rest and peace, makes free the slave,
Levels all past distinctions, and doth place
The beggar on a footing with the king.
O, poor Humanity! those who conspired
To slay thee, through exceeding love for God,
And for the glory of His mighty name,
Smote at the very centre of thy peace,
And damning doubts, like daggers’ thrusts, attest
How zealously they aimed each cruel blow.
And yet, this rent and bloody mantle is not thee.
Slain, but not dead—thy spirit shall arise
And face thy startled enemies again,
As royal Cæsar’s ghost appeared to Brutus,
In Sardis’ and Philippi’s tented plains.
Thou royal heir to kingdoms yet unknown!
A mightier than Cæsar is thy Friend.
He stays the hand of Cassius, Brutus, all
Who aim their weapons at thy life, and dulls
Their daggers’ points against thy deathless soul.
From every gaping wound of fear or doubt,
Murder or malice, sorrow or despair,
Thy spirit leaps as from a prison door.
It laughs at death and daggers, as it flies
To hold companionship with spirits blest;
And having thus informed itself of life,
The question then,—“To be, or not to be?”—
Is swallowed up in Immortality.
Slain, but not dead—thy spirit shall arise
And face thy startled enemies again,
As royal Cæsar’s ghost appeared to Brutus,
In Sardis’ and Philippi’s tented plains.
Thou royal heir to kingdoms yet unknown!
A mightier than Cæsar is thy Friend.
He stays the hand of Cassius, Brutus, all
Who aim their weapons at thy life, and dulls
Their daggers’ points against thy deathless soul.
From every gaping wound of fear or doubt,
Murder or malice, sorrow or despair,
Thy spirit leaps as from a prison door.
It laughs at death and daggers, as it flies
To hold companionship with spirits blest;
And having thus informed itself of life,
The question then,—“To be, or not to be?”—
Is swallowed up in Immortality.