P O E M S
FROM

T H E   I N N E R   L I F E.

BY

L I Z Z I E   D O T E N.

FOURTEENTH EDITION.

BOSTON:
COLBY & RICH, PUBLISHERS,
9 Montgomery Place.


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863 by
E L I Z A B E T H   D O T E N,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts

ELECTROTYPED AT THE
BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY,
4 SPRING LANE.

CONTENTS.

A WORD TO THE WORLD.

By the advice of those invisible intelligences, whose presence and power I freely acknowledge, seconded by my own judgment, I have given to this work the title of “Poems from the Inner Life;” for, aside from the external phenomena of Modern Spiritualism,—which, compared to the great principles underlying them, are but mere froth and foam on the ocean of Truth,—I have realized that in the mysterious depths of the Inner Life, all souls can hold communion with those invisible beings, who are our companions both in Time and Eternity. My vision has been dim and indistinct, my hearing confused by the jarring discords of earthly existence, and my utterances of a wisdom, higher than my own, impeded by my selfish conceits and vain imaginings. Yet, notwithstanding all this, the solemn convictions of my spiritual surroundings, and the mutual ties of interest still existing between souls, “whether in the body or out of the body,” have been indelibly impressed upon me. From such experiences I have learned—in a sense hitherto unknown—that “the kingdom of Heaven is within me.” I know that many sincere and earnest souls will decide at once, in the integrity of their well-trained intellects, that this claim to an intercourse with the invisible world is an extravagant assumption, and has no foundation in truth. To such I would say, I shall make no effort to persuade your reason and judgment. I only offer to you as a suggestion, that which has been realized by me in my spiritual experience, and has become to me an abiding truth, full of strength for the present, and hope for the future. When your souls sincerely hunger after such a revelation, you will seek for it, and according to your need, you will be filled therewith. Until then, you and I, regarding things from a different point of view, must inevitably understand them differently. There are various cups which Humanity must drink of, and “baptisms which it must be baptized with,” and this manifestation of Truth, of which I am but one of the humble representatives, has laid its controlling hand upon me; for what purpose, in the mysterious results which lie concealed in the future, I cannot tell—I only know that it is so.

Looking back upon my experience, I cannot doubt that I—with many others—was destined to this phase of development, and designed for this peculiar work, before I knew conscious being. My brain was fashioned, and my nervous system finely strung, so that I should inevitably catch the thrill of the innumerable voices resounding through the universe, and translate their messages into human language, as coherently and clearly as my imperfections would allow. The early influences of my childhood, the experiences of later years, and more than all, that unutterable yearning for Beauty and Harmony, which I felt dimly conscious was somewhere in the universe, all tended to drive me back from the world, which would not and could not give me what I asked, to the revelations of my inner life,—to the “Heaven within me.” It was only through the cultivation of my spiritual nature that “spiritual things were to be discerned,” and the stern necessity of my life was the Teacher which finally educated me into the perception of Truth.

I turn back to the memories of my childhood—to that long course of trying experiences through which I passed, guided by strange and invisible influences; and that whole course of discipline has for me now a peculiar significance. Those who were near and dear to me, and who were most familiar with my habits of life, knew little of my intense spiritual experience. I was too much afraid of being ridiculed and misunderstood to dare give any expression to the strange and indefinable emotions within me. Such ones, however, may call to mind the child who often, through the long winter evenings, sat in profound silence by the fireside, with her head and face enveloped in her apron, to exclude, as far as possible, all external sight and sound. What I heard and saw then but dimly returns to me; but even then the revelations from the “Heaven within” had commenced, and succeeding years have so strengthened and confirmed my vision, that such scenes have become to me living truths and blessed realities. The “Heaven” that “lay about me in my infancy” sent its rich glow through my childhood, and sheds its mystic brightness upon the pathway of my riper years.

Often, in the retirement of a small closet, I spent hours in total darkness, lying prostrate on the floor, beating the waves of the mysterious Infinite that rolled in a stormy flood over me, and with prayers and tears beseeching deliverance from my blindness and seeming unbelief. Then, when by my earnestness the spirit had become stronger than the flesh, I would gradually fall into a deep trance, from which I would arise strengthened and consoled by the assurance—from whence I could not tell—that somewhere in the future I should find all the life, and light, and freedom that my soul desired. The only evidence or knowledge which those around me received of such visitations was occasionally a poem—some of them written so early in life, that the childish chirography rendered them almost illegible. Because of these early productions, it has been asserted that my claim to any individual spirit-influence was either a falsehood or delusion. I will only say in reply, that there is no need of entering upon any argument on the subject. I claim both a general and particular inspiration. They do not, by any means, conflict; and what I do not receive from one, comes from the other. For the very reason that I have natural poetic tendencies, I attract influences of a kindred nature; and when I desire it, or they will to do so, they cast their characteristic inspirations upon me, and I give them utterance according to my ability. It is often as difficult to decide what is the action of one’s own intellect and what is spirit-influence, as it is in our ordinary associations to determine what is original with ourselves and what we have received from circumstances or contact with the mind of others. Yet, nevertheless, there are cases where the distinction is so evident that it is not to be doubted. Only one or two such well-attested instances is sufficient to establish the theory. I am not willing to ignore one faculty or power of my being for the sake of proving a favorite idea; and, on the contrary, I cannot conscientiously deny that, in the mysteries of my inner life, I have been acted upon decidedly and directly by disembodied intelligences, and this, sometimes, by an inspiration characteristic of the individual, or by a psychological influence similar to that whereby mind acts upon mind in the body. Under such influences I have not necessarily lost my individuality, or become wholly unconscious. I was, for the time being, like a harp in the hands of superior powers, and just in proportion as my entire nature was attuned to thrill responsive to their touch, did I give voice and expression to their unwritten music. They furnished the inspiration, but it was of necessity modified by the nature and character of the instrument upon which they played, for the most skilful musician cannot change the tone of a harp to the sound of a trumpet, though he may give a characteristic expression of himself through either.

The presence and influence of these powers is to me no new or recent occurrence, although I may not have understood them in the same light as I do at present. They have formed a part of all my past life, and I can trace the evidence of spiritual assistance running like a golden thread through all my intellectual efforts. As I do not desire to practise any deception upon the public, but on the contrary only wish to declare the simple truth, I have published in this volume quite a number of poems, written several years previous to my appearance before the public as a medium or a speaker. Although these were mostly wrought out of my brain by the slow process of thought, yet for some of these, even, I can claim as direct and special an inspiration as for those delivered upon the platform. The first poem in this present work,—“The Prayer of the Sorrowing,”—and that which immediately succeeds it,—“The Song of Truth,”—containing in itself an answer to the Prayer, were given to me under peculiar circumstances. The first was the language of my own soul, intensified by an occasion of great mental anguish. The second, following directly upon it, was an illumination of my entire being, when I seemed to have wept away the scales from my eyes, and “by the deep conflict of my soul in prayer,” to have broken the fetters of my mortality, and stepped forth into that freedom whereby I stood face to face with the ministering spirits, and heard that “Song of Truth” sounding through the universe. I have only known but few such visitations in my lifetime, but when they have come, I have felt that I have taken a free, deep breath of celestial air, and caught a glimpse of the Realities of Things. As an immediate consequence, my spirit has become braver and stronger, and long after my inward vision was closed, the cheering light of that blessed revelation has lingered in my heart.

Another poem, which bore evidence to me of an inspiration acting upon me, and external to myself, was the “Song of the North,” relating to the fate of Sir John Franklin and his men. I was desired to write an illustration for a plate, about to appear in the “Lily of the Valley,” an Annual published by J. M. Usher, of Cornhill, Boston. I endeavored to do so, but day after day passed by and my labor was in vain, for not one acceptable idea would suggest itself. The publisher sent for the article, but it was not in being. One day, however, I was seized with an indefinable uneasiness. I wandered up and down through the house and garden, till finally the idea of what I was to do became clearly defined; then, with my paper and pencil, I hastened to a quiet corner in the attic, where nearly all my poems had been written, and there I wrote the Song of the North—so rapidly, that it was scarce legible, and I was obliged to copy it at once, lest I should lose the connection. The next day it seemed as foreign and strange to me as it would to any one who had never seen it. At the time this was written (in April, 1853) strong hopes were entertained of the discovery of Franklin and his men, together with their safe return; therefore I hesitated to make public that which seemed a decided affirmation to the contrary. Nevertheless, so strong were my convictions as to the truth of the poem, that I allowed it to be published. Later revelations concerning the fate of that brave adventurer and his companions gave to the poem somewhat of the character of a prophecy.

How far I have ever written, independent of these higher influences, I cannot say; I only know that all the poems under my own name have come from the deep places of my “Inner Life;” and in that self-same sacred retreat—which I have entered either by the intense concentration of all my intellectual powers, or a passive surrender to the inspirations that moved upon me—I have held conscious communion with disembodied spirits. At such times it has been said I was “entranced;” and although that term does not exactly express my idea, perhaps it is the best which can yet be found in our language. The avenues of external sense, if not entirely closed, were at least disused, in order that the spiritual perceptions might be quickened to the required degree, and also that the world of causes, of which earth and its experiences are but the passing effects, might be disclosed to my vision. Certain it is that a physical change took place, affecting both my breathing and circulation, and my clairvoyant powers were so strengthened that I could dimly perceive external objects from the frontal portion of my brain, even with my eyes closed and bandaged; also, in that state, any excess of light was far more painful than under ordinary conditions. If the communications given through my instrumentality have been weak, erroneous, and imperfect, it is no fault of my spirit-teachers, but arises rather from my own inability to understand or clearly express what was communicated to me.

In relation to the poems given under direct spirit-influence I would say, that there has been a mistake existing in many minds concerning them, which I take the present opportunity, as far as possible, to correct. They were not like lightning flashes, coming unheralded, and vanishing without leaving a trace behind. Several days before they were given, I would receive intimations of them. Oftentimes, and particularly under the influence of Poe, I would awake in the night from a deep slumber, and detached fragments of those poems would be floating through my mind, though in a few moments after they would vanish like a dream. I have sometimes awakened myself by repeating them aloud. I have been informed, also, by these influences, that all their poems are as complete and finished in spirit-life as they are in this, and the only reason why they cannot be repeated again and again is because of the difficulty of bringing a human organism always into the same state of exaltation—a state in which mediums readily receive inspiration, and render the poems with the least interference of their own intellect.

Among these spiritual poems will be found two purporting to come from Shakspeare. This influence seemed to overwhelm and crush me. I was afraid, and shrank from it. Only those two poems were given, and then the attempt was not repeated. I do not think that the poems in themselves come up to the productions of his master mind. They are only intimations of what might have been, if he had had a stronger and more effectual instrument upon which to pour his inspirations. I have no doubt that time will yet furnish one upon whom his mantle will fall; but I can only say that his power was mightier than I could bear. As I have regarded him spiritually, he seems to be a majestic intellect, but one that overawes rather than attracts me; and my conclusion has been, that while in the flesh, although he was of himself a mighty mind, yet still he spake wiser than he knew, being moved upon by those superior powers who choose men for their mouthpieces, and oblige them to speak startling words into the dull ear of the times. As all Nature is a manifestation of Deity, so all Humanity is a manifestation of mind,—differing, however, in degrees of development,—and one body serves as an instrument to effect the purposes of many minds. This is illustrated in the pursuits and employments of ordinary life, and has a far deeper significance when taken in connection with the invisible world.

The influence of Burns was pleasant, easy, and exhilarating, and left me in a cheerful mood. As a spirit, he seemed to be genial and kindly, with a clear perception and earnest love of simple truth, and at the same time a good-natured contempt for all shams, mere forms, and solemn mockeries. This was the way in which he impressed me, and I felt much more benefited than burdened by his presence.

The first poem delivered by Poe, came to me far more unexpectedly than any other. By referring to the introductory remarks, copied from the “Springfield Republican,” it will be seen that the supposition is presented, that I, or “the one who wrote the poem,” must have been very familiar with the writings of Poe. As no one wrote the poem for me, consequently I am the only one who can answer to the supposition; and I can say, most conscientiously, that previous to that time I had never read, to my knowledge, any of his poems, save “The Raven,” and I had not seen that for several years. Indeed, I may well say in this connection, that I have read, comparatively speaking, very little poetry in the course of my life, and have never made the style of any author a study. The influence of Poe was neither pleasant nor easy. I can only describe it as a species of mental intoxication. I was tortured with a feeling of great restlessness and irritability, and strange, incongruous images crowded my brain. Some were bewildering and dazzling as the sun, others dark and repulsive. Under his influence, particularly, I suffered the greatest exhaustion of vital energy, so much so, that after giving one of his poems, I was usually quite ill for several days.

But from his first poem to the last,—“The Farewell to Earth,”—was a marked, and rapid change. It would seem as though, in that higher life, where the opportunities for spiritual development far transcend those of earth, that by his quick and active perceptions he had seized upon the Divine Idea which was endeavoring to find expression through his life, both in Time and Eternity; and that from the moment this became apparent, with a volcanic energy, with the battle-strokes of a true hero, he had overthrown every obstacle, and hewn a way through every barrier that impeded the free outgrowth and manifestation of his diviner self. His “Farewell” is not a mere poem of the imagination. It is a record of facts. I can clearly perceive, as his spirit has been revealed to me, that there was a deep significance in his words, when he said,—

As he last appeared to me, he was full of majesty and strength, self-poised and calm, and it would seem by the expression of his countenance, radiant with victory, that the reward promised to “him that overcometh,” had been made his sure possession. Around his brow, as a spiritual emblem, was an olive-wreath, whose leaves glowed like fire. He stood upon the side of a mountain, which was white and glittering like crystal, and the full tide of inspiration to which he gave utterance could not be comprehended in human speech. That last “Farewell,” as it found expression through my weak lips, was but the faintest possible echo of that most musical and majestic lyric which thrilled the harp-strings of my being. In order to be fully realized and understood, the soul must be transported to that sphere of spiritual perceptions, where there is no audible “speech nor language,” and where the “voice is not heard.”

Obedient to the call of the Angels, he has “gone up higher” in the ways of Eternal Progress; and though, because of this change, he may no longer manifest himself as he was, yet doubtless as he is, he will yet be felt as a Presence and a Power in the “Heaven” of many a human heart. Upon earth he was a meteor light, flashing with a startling brilliancy across the intellectual firmament; but now he is a star of ever-increasing magnitude, which has at length gravitated to its own place among the celestial spheres.

In saying thus much, I cannot so play the coward to my spiritual convictions as to offer the slightest apology for any ideas I may have advanced contrary to popular prejudices or time-honored opinions. O, thoughtful reader! if I have offended thee, say simply that these are my convictions and not yours, and do not fear for the result; for in whatsoever I purpose or perform, I “can do nothing against the Truth—only for it.” I do not indulge in the conceit that this little work has any important mission to perform, or that it will cause any commotion in the literary world. But I have felt, as one by one these poems have been wrought out—by general or special inspiration—from my “Inner Life,” that in this matter I had a work, simple though it might be, to do, and my soul was sorely “straitened till it was accomplished.”

As some of these poems, appearing at various times, have been severely criticized in the past, so I would say now, that if any there should be, who, through bigotry, or prejudice, or a desire to display their superior wisdom, should choose to criticize them in their present form—to such I shall make no answer. But to all those earnest and inquiring souls, who feel that in such experiences as I have described, or in the resources from which my soul has drawn its supply, there is aught that is attractive or desirable to them, I would say, “God speed you in your search for Truth!” At the same time let me assure you, that in the depths of your own Inner Life there is a fountain of inspiration and wisdom, which, if sought aright, will yield you more abundant satisfaction than any simple cup of the living water which I, or any other individual, can place to your lips. There are invisible teachers around you, the hem of whose garments I am unworthy to touch. “The words that they speak unto you—they are Spirit and they are Life.” “In order to know more you must be more.” Faith strikes its roots deep in the spirit, and often Intuition is a safer guide than Reason. When a man, by constant practice, has so quickened his spiritual perceptions that he can receive conscious impressions from his invisible attendants, he will never be without counsellors.

The Spirit-World is not so distant as it seems, and the veil of Materiality which hides it from our view, by hopeful and untiring aspiration can be rent in twain. We only need listen earnestly and attentively, and we shall soon learn to keep step in the grand march of Life to the music of the upper spheres. As a popular author has beautifully said, “Silence is vocal, if we listen well.” With a sublime accord, the great anthem of the Infinite “rolls and resounds” through the Universe, and whosoever will, can listen to that harmony, till all special and particular discords shall die out from the “Inner Life,” and the Heaven of the celestial intelligences shall blend with the “Heaven within,” in perfect unison!

POEMS

FROM

THE INNER LIFE.

PART I.

THE PRAYER OF THE SORROWING.

“And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven strengthening him.”

THE SONG OF TRUTH.

THE EMBARKATION.

KEPLER’S VISION.