Poems of Progress

Up o’er the shining ways of light,
That flash across the starry skies,
Up to Creation’s loftiest hight,
The pathway of the spirit lies.
Where countless constellations gleam,
The soul triumphant shall ascend,
Shall drink of Life’s eternal stream,
And with new forms of being blend.

No boundless solitude of space
Shall fill man’s conscious soul with awe,
But everywhere his eye shall trace
The beauty of eternal law.
Sweet music from celestial isles
Shall float across the azure seas,
And flowers, where endless summer smiles,
Shall waft their perfumes on the breeze.

No empty void, no rayless night,
No wintry waves by tempests tossed,
No treasures ravished from the sight,
No blighted hopes, no blessing lost;
But all that was, or yet shall be,
Through endless transformations led,
Shall know, through Life’s sublime decree,
A resurrection from the dead.

And he who, through the lapse of years,
With aching heart and weary feet,
Had sought, from gloomy doubts and fears,
A refuge and a sure retreat—
Shall find at last an inner shrine,
Secure from superstition’s ban,
Where he shall learn the truth divine,
That God dwells evermore with man.

Throughout the boundless All in All,
Life lengthens—an unbroken chain—
And He in whom we stand or fall,
Feels all our pleasure and our pain.
O Infinite! O Holy Heart!
Give us but patience to endure,
Until we know thee as thou art,
And feel our lives in thee made sure.

GUARDIAN ANGELS.

Holy ministers of light!
Hidden from our mortal sight,
But whose presence can impart
Peace and comfort to the heart,
When we weep, or when we pray,
When we falter in the way,
Or our hearts grow faint with fear,
Let us feel your presence near.

Wandering over ways untrod,
Doubting self and doubting God,
Oft we miss the shining mark,
Oft we stumble in the dark.
Holy, holy life above!
Full of peace and perfect love,
Some sweet rays of summer shed
On the wintry ways we tread.

Blessed angels! ye who heed
All our striving, all our need,
When our eyes with weeping ache,
When our hearts in silence break,
When the cross is hard to bear,
When we fail to do and dare,
Make our wounded spirits feel
All your power to bless and heal.

When we gaze on new-made graves,
When the love the spirit craves,
Pure and saintly, like a star,
Shines upon us from afar,
Lead us upward to that light,
Till our faith is changed to sight,
Till we learn to murmur not,
And with patience bear our lot.

By our human weal and woe,
By our life of toil below,
By our sorrow and our pain,
By our hope of heavenly gain,
By these cherished forms of clay,
Fading from our sight away,
Do we plead for light, more light,
From that world beyond our sight.

Never, till our hearts are dust,
Till our souls shall cease to trust,
Till our love becomes a lie,
And our aspirations die,
Shall we cease with hope, to gaze
On that veil’s mysterious haze,
Or the presence to implore
Of the loved ones gone before.

Holy spirit! quickening all,
On thy boundless love we call;
Send thy messengers of light,
To unseal our inward sight;
Lift us from our low estate,
Make us truly wise and great,
That our lives, through love, may be
Full of peace and rest in Thee.

NEARER TO THEE.

The following Poem was given at the conclusion of a lecture on “The Present Condition of Theodore Parker in Spirit Life”

Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee.[36]

Yes, I am nearer Thee! for flesh and sense
Have been exchanged for an eternal youth;
My spirit hath been born anew, and hence
I worship Thee “in spirit and in truth.”

Yes, I am nearer Thee! Though still unseen,
Thy presence fills my life’s diviner part.
Now that no earthly shadows intervene,
I feel a deeper sense of what Thou art.

Yes, I am nearer Thee! Thy boundless love
Fills all my being with a rich increase,
And soft descending, like a heavenly dove,
I feel the benediction of Thy peace.

Yes, I am nearer Thee! All that I sought
Of Truth, or Wisdom, or Eternal Right,
Is clearly present to my inmost thought,
Like the uprising of a glorious light.

Yes, I am nearer Thee! O, calm and still,
And beautiful and blest beyond degree,
Is this surrender of my finite will—
Is this absorption of my soul in Thee.

“O Thou! whom men call God and know no more!”
When they shall leave the worship of the Past,
And learn to love Thee rather than adore,
All souls shall draw thus near to Thee at last.

THE SACRAMENT.

The aged pastor broke the bread—
With trembling hands he poured the wine—
“Eat—drink”—in earnest tones he said—
“These emblems of a life divine—
His body broken for your sins;
His blood for your salvation shed;
The priceless sacrifice that wins
Life and redemption from the dead.

“See how with tender love he stands,
And calls you to his faithful heart;
Lo! from his wounded side and hands
Again the crimson life-drops start.
O sinner! wherefore will you stay,
Regardless of your lost estate?
Come at your Saviour’s call to-day,
Before, alas! it is too late.”

Forth from his lonely seat apart,
A dark-browed, Ethiopian came,
As if new life had stirred the heart
That beat within his manly frame.
“O, give to me,” he meekly said,
“A portion of that heavenly food;
I too would eat the living bread,
And find salvation through his blood.”

The Pastor turned with wondering eyes;
But when he saw the dusky brow,
He answered, with a quick surprise,
“Ho! bold intruder! Who art thou?
The master’s table is not free
To give the low-born servant place—
Such privilege can only be
For his accepted sons of grace.”

Upon the dusky brow there glowed
A flush that was not wrath nor pride,
As forward he majestic strode,
And stood close by the altar-side.
The broken bread his left hand spurned
With sudden movement to the floor,
While with his right he quickly turned
The consecrated chalice o’er.

One instant, for the tempest-cloud
To gather on each pallid face.
And then uprose the angry crowd
To thrust him from the sacred place.
With conscious might he raised his hand—
A being of resistless will—
And uttered the sublime command
That hushed the tempest—“Peace, be still!”

The waves of wrath and human pride
Rolled back, without the power to harm,
The angry murmurs surged and died,
And lo! there was a breathless calm.
The dusky brow to dazzling white
Had in one fleeting instant turned,
And round his head a halo bright
Of heaven’s resplendent glory burned.

“I do reject,” he calmly said,
“These outward forms—this bread, this wine:
Lo! at my table all are fed,
Made welcome by a love divine.
The high, the low, the rich, the poor,
The black, the white, the bond, the free,
The sinful soul, the heart impure—
Forbid them not to come to me.

“Too long, too long have faithless creeds
Shut out the sunshine from above,
While human hearts, with human needs,
Have perished from the lack of love.
O, break for them truth’s living bread;
Let love, like wine, unhindered flow;
Thus would I have the hungry fed,
And let these outward emblems go.”

Then from the altar-side there rose
A cloud with matchless glory bright,
As when, at evening’s calm repose,
The sun withdraws his radiant light.
But though so far removed from all,
He seemed in presence to depart,
The seed of living truth let fall
Took root in many a thoughtful heart.

THE GOOD TIME NOW.

The world is strong with a mighty hope
Of a good time yet to be,
And carefully casts the horoscope
Of her future destiny;
And poet, and prophet, and priest, and sage,
Are watching, with anxious eyes,
To see the light of that promised age
On the waiting world arise.
O, weary and long seems that time to some,
Who under Life’s burdens bow,
For while they wait for that time to come,
They forget ’tis a good time now.

Yes, a good time now—for we cannot say
What the morrow will bring to view;
But we’re always sure of the time to-day,
And the course we must pursue;
And no better time is ever sought,
By a brave heart, under the sun,
Than the present hour, with its noblest thought,
And the duties to be done.
’Tis enough for the earnest soul to see
There is work to be done, and how,
For he knows that the good time yet to be,
Depends on the good time now.

There is never a broken link in the chain,
And never a careless flaw,
For cause and effect, and loss and gain,
Are true to a changeless law.
Now is the time to sow the seed
For the harvest of future years,
Now is the time for a noble deed,
While the need for the work appears.
You must earn the bread of your liberty
By toil and the sweat of your brow,
And hasten the good time yet to be,
By improving the good time now.

’Tis as bright a sun that shines to-day
As will shine in the coming time;
And Truth has as weighty a word to say,
Through her oracles sublime.
There are voices in earth, and air, and sky,
That tell of the good time here,
And visions that come to Faith’s clear eye,
The weary in heart to cheer.
The glorious fruit on Life’s goodly tree
Is ripening on every bough,
And the wise in spirit rejoice to see
The light of the good time now.

The world rests not, with a careless ease,
On the wisdom of the past—
From Moses, and Plato, and Socrates,
It is onward advancing fast;
And the words of Jesus, and John, and Paul,
Stand out from the lettered page,
And the living present contains them all,
In the spirit that moves the age.
Great, earnest souls, through the Truth made free,
No longer in blindness bow,
And the good time coming, the yet to be,
Has begun with the good time now.

Then up! nor wait for the promised hour,
For the good time now is best,
And the soul that uses its gift of power
Shall be in the present blest.
Whatever the future may have in store,
With a will there is ever a way;
And none need burden the soul with more
Than the duties of to-day.
Then up! with a spirit brave and free,
And put the hand to the plow,
Nor wait for the good time yet to be,
But work in the good time now.

LIFE’S MYSTERIES.

To the soul that is gifted with seeing
The secrets and sources of being,
A mystical meaning appears
For the hearts that in silence are broken,
For the words of affection unspoken,
For sorrow, bereavement, and tears.

There are souls that with genius are gifted,
On crosses of sorrow uplifted,
Who find their salvation through pain;
There are deeds of the brave unrecorded,
And the toil of warm hands unrewarded,
Whose loss is an infinite gain.

There are spirits who pray that no morrow
May dawn on the depths of their sorrow;
But the morrow brings patience and peace.
And the faithful, who often with weeping
Have sown the good seed in their keeping,
Have garnered a blessed increase.

There are lives that are matchless in beauty,
Through the faithful performance of duty,
Whose labors of love are unknown.
There are spirits who languish in prison,
Whose light on the world has not risen,
And yet they are never alone.

The poor, the oppressed, and the lowly,
The selfish, the weak, and the holy,
Have each in life’s drama a part.
While the wants and the woes that o’ercame them,
With the lives of the righteous who blame them,
Are known to the Infinite Heart.

O, where is the angel recorder!
And where is the watchman and warder,
That is charged with the keeping of souls?
And what is the mystical meaning,
Which the thoughtful in spirit are gleaning
From the Force that all Nature controls?

O, not where the sun-fires are burning,
And not where the planets are turning
Their faces to welcome the light,
Shall we seek for the Centre of Being,
And learn of the Wisdom All-seeing,
Or climb to life’s infinite hight.

But deep as love’s fathomless ocean,
In a spirit of lowly devotion,
Should we patiently strive to ascend;
Not reckless, unfeeling, and stoic,
But with courage and calmness heroic,
Unswerving and true to the end.

With shoulders that bow to life’s crosses,
With hearts that faint not at their losses,
With spirits that triumph o’er pain,—
At length to such souls shall be given
The peaceful possession of heaven,
And the life that is infinite gain.

Then, judged by the complex relation
Of each to the Soul of Creation,
Distinctions of merit must fall.
There is good for the Saint and the Sinner,
There is gain for the loser or winner,
And a just compensation for all.

For the Infinite Life is ascending,
And all things are with it uptending,
Away from all evil and strife.
To man is the toil of endeavor,
But unto that Being, forever,
The peace and perfection of life.

A WOODLAND IDYL.

Old Brown Brier lived in the depths of a wood,
Close down by a sassafras tree;
Jealous, and selfish, and hostile to all,
A surly old fellow was he.
He hated his neighbor, the sassafras-tree,
When her leaves grew green in the spring,
And he almost perished with envy and spite,
When he heard an oriole sing.
But one thing saved him, and only one,
From a life of sorrow and woe;
He longed for a change in his hermit life,
And a power in himself to grow.

A fair young child to the green-wood came,
With eyes like the gentian blue;
Her hair was like threads of an amber flame,
And her cheek wore the sunset hue.
Her step was light as the bounding roe,
And her voice like a silver bell;
She charmed the birds from their green retreats,
And the squirrel from his cell.

She sang of the love, of the free, great love,
Which the Father has for all,
From the worlds of light, in the heavens above,
To the flowers and the insects small.

“Ah!” sighed the Brier, the brown old Brier,
“What has he done for me?”
Does he give me leaves in the early spring,
Or flowers like the locust tree?”

“Our God is just, and our God is true,”
Still warbled the happy child;
“He sendeth his sunshine and silver dew
To the desert and lonely wild;
And the secret force in the tempest cloud
To the smallest flower is given,
That all, by his wisdom and strength endowed,
May live for the Lord of Heaven.”

She passed. The old Brier was lost in thought.
“And is it, then, really so?
Can this wondrous change by myself be wrought?
Have I power in myself to grow?”
Then up from the gray old mother Earth
Rich juices he quickly drew,
Till the sluices and channels small were filled
With the fresh sap trickling through.

He called to the winds, to the warm spring winds,
As they played with the flowers near by,
And he prayed the sunshine, with golden wings,
On his cold, damp roots to lie.
The spring winds blew, and the sunshine came,
And the Brier grew fresh and fair,
Till his blossoms, like wreaths of incense cups,
With their fragrance filled the air.

Again the child to the green-wood came;
But her step was sad and slow;
Her eye beamed not with its love-lit flame,
And her voice was soft and low.

“I am changed,” she said; “O ye birds and flowers!
With a yearning heart I weep
To lay me down in these quiet bowers,
In a long, untroubled sleep.
For O, my heart like a flower is crushed,
And I cling to the world no more;
The sacred fount from its urn hath gushed,
And the joy of my life is o’er.”

The summer winds through the green-wood passed,
And the sweet Brier bowed his head;
A garland fair at her feet he cast,
And in gentle tones he said,—

“Return to the world, dear child, return;
No longer receive, but give!
From a humble Brier this lesson learn:
Thou hast power in thyself to live.

JUBILATE.

Sung at the celebration of the 20th anniversary of Modern Spiritualism, March 31, 1868.

The world hath felt a quickening breath
From Heaven’s eternal shore,
And souls triumphant over Death
Return to earth once more.
For this we hold our jubilee,
For this with joy we sing—
“O Grave, where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?”

Our cypress wreaths are laid aside
For amaranthine flowers,
For Death’s cold wave does not divide
The souls we love from ours.
From pain, and death, and sorrow free,
They join with us to sing—
“O Grave, where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?”

Immortal eyes look from above
Upon our joys to-night,
And souls immortal in their love
In our glad songs unite.
Across the waveless crystal sea
The notes triumphant ring—
“O Grave, where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?”

“Sweet spirits, welcome yet again!”
With loving hearts we cry;
And, “Peace on earth, good will to men,”
The angel hosts reply.
From doubt and fear, through truth made free,
With faith triumphant sing—
“O Grave, where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?”

THE DIVINE IDEA.

When the morning came with her eyes of flame,
And looked on the youthful earth;
When man, at the call of the Lord of All,
Rose up in his glorious birth;
When the stars rang out, with a tuneful shout
To the mountains and the sea,
And the world’s great heart, with a quickened start,
Beat time to their melody;—

Ere the dawning light in the heavens grew bright,
Ere the march of the hours began,
God planted the seed of a mighty need,
In the innermost soul of man.
’Twas the yearning wild that a little child
For the fostering parent feels—
A holy thought with his life inwrought,
Which his simplest act reveals.

The lion proud, like a servant, bowed
At the might of his sovereign will;
But to man alone was the sense made known
Of a power that was higher still.
Yet vague and dim was that thought to him;
His simple and child-like mind
Could not gaze aright on that matchless light,
So boundless and unconfined.

Gross by birth from his mother Earth,
He needed some outward sign;
So the artisan planned, with a cunning hand,
A form of the Great Divine.
And Baal, and Allah, and Juggernaut,
And Brahma, and Zeus, and Pan,
Show how deeply wrought was that one great thought,
In the worshiping soul of man.

Then his Deity came in the morning’s flame,
In the song of the sun-lit seas,
In the stars at night, in the noontide light,
In the woods and the murmuring breeze.
To the Great Divine at the idol shrine,
By each and by every name,
Through the fiery death or the prayerful breath,
The worship was still the same.

Like a grain in the sod grew the thought of God,
As Nature’s slow work appears;
From the zoöphyte small, to the “Lord of all,”
Through cycles and sums of years.
But the dark grew bright, and the night grew light,
When the era of Truth began,
And the soul was taught, through its primal thought,
Of the life of God in man.

Then the soul arose from her long repose,
At the Truth’s awakening breath,
And fearlessly trod as a child of God,
Triumphant o’er Time and Death.
There came a sound from the wide world round,
Like the surging of the sea,
Majestic and deep in its onward sweep—
’Twas the anthem of the free.

Through the ages dim has that holy hymn
Come down to our listening ears;
And still shall it float with a sweeter note
Through the vista of coming years.
And a voice makes known from the viewless throne,
“As it hath been, shall it be—
On! on from the past! still on to the last!
Like a river that seeks the sea.”

“Hour by hour, like an opening flower,
Shall truth after truth expand;
The sun may grow pale, and the stars may fail,
But the purpose of God shall stand.
Dogmas and creeds without kindred deeds,
And altar and fane, shall fall;
One bond of love, and one home above,
And one faith shall be to all.”

THE PYRAMIDS.

“I was weary, very weary; but when I leaned against the Pyramids, they gave me strength.”—Koscielski.

A wanderer from his childhood’s home,
An exile from his father-land,
His weary feet were doomed to roam
Far o’er the desert’s scorching sand.
No mother o’er his pillow smiled,
No sister’s hand a blessing lent;
His only couch the desert wild,
His only home an Arab tent.

Upon the classic shores of Greece,
And by the imperial towers of Rome,
He vainly sought to find that peace
Denied him in his childhood’s home.
Beneath Lake Leman’s watery bed,
In Chillon’s dungeon damp and low,
Communing with the mighty dead,
His spirit felt a kindred glow.

He drank Circassia’s breath of bloom,
He climbed the Alps’ eternal snows,
He plucked the leaves by Virgil’s tomb,
And stood where ancient Jordan flows.
And where Napoleon’s falchion gleamed
Along the borders of the Nile,
The pilgrim exile slept, and dreamed
He saw his own loved mother’s smile.

With weary feet he came, at last,
Where, all untouched by Time’s rude hands,
The Pyramids their shadows cast
Upon the desert’s burning sands.
Still in their works of greatness dwelt
The spirits of these mighty men;
Before their majesty he knelt!
He rose—and he was strong again.

O thou! whose life is all inwrought
With cheerful faith and strength sublime,
Leave thou some monumental thought
Upon the desert waste of Time.
Some exile from his native heaven
May tread the path which thou hast trod,
And through thy works may strength be given
To lift his spirit up to God.

THE INNER MYSTERY.

The following inspirational poem was delivered at a festival commemorative of the twentieth anniversary of the advent of Modern Spiritualism, held in Music Hall, Boston, March 31, 1868.

It is an allegorical description of the progress of a soul from the Valley of Superstition and Traditional Theology to the highest mountain peaks of Natural Philosophy and Spiritual Revelation. He is strengthened and encouraged in his progress by the voices “of the loved ones gone before.” At length, in the higher regions of metaphysical reasoning and abstract philosophy, he encounters the demon Doubt—a representative of popular Theology and traditional authority. This Doubt endeavors to make him distrust reason, and render a blind credence to mere authority. In the struggle with the demon the great Truth flashes with a realizing sense upon the soul, that by its inherent nature it is older than all forms of Truth, and one with God himself. In the strength of this conviction he conquers, and the demon is slain.

Thus “The Inner Mystery” is revealed, and the unfolding of the spiritual perceptions follows as a legitimate result.

“According to Fichte, there is a Divine Idea pervading the visible universe; which visible universe is indeed but its symbol and sensible manifestation, having in itself no meaning, or even true existence, independent of it. To the mass of men this Divine Idea lies hidden; yet to discern it, to seize it, and live wholly in it, is the condition of all genuine virtue, knowledge, freedom, and the end, therefore, of all spiritual effort in every age.”—Carlyle.

In the valley, where the darkness
Dropped its poisonous vapors on my head,
Where the night winds moaned and murmured,
Like the voices of the troubled dead,
Groping, stumbling, weary and alone,
Did I make the earth my bed,
And my pillow was a stone.

O, that slumber!
It was long, and dark, and deep,
Till a voice cried, “Come up hither!”
And I started from my sleep.

“Whither?” cried I; and it answered,
“Come up hither! for the day is dawning;
Through the gates of amethyst and amber
Shines the kindling glory of the morning.”

Gazing upward,
I beheld assurance of the day;
Hopeful-hearted,
O’er the mountain-path I took my way.
’Mid the pine trees
Did I hear life’s drowsy pulses start,
Swinging, singing,
Making sweet, but mournful music,
Thrilling, filling,
All the lonely places of my heart.

Then the embers of the morning,
Smouldering on night’s funeral pyre,
Kindling into sudden brightness,
Lit the mountain-peaks with fire;
And the quickened heart of Nature
Answered from her Memnon lyre.
Eager, earnest, still ascending,
Toward the glories of the day,
I could hear that voice my steps attending,
With the matin-hymn of Nature blending,
Ever crying, “Come up hither!”
And I followed in the way.

Bright the sky glowed with celestial splendor,
Like the light of love from God’s own eyes;
And the lofty mountains seemed to tender
Back their crowns of glory to the skies.
Far above me,
In the hights so terrible and grand,
I could see the glaciers gleaming
In the hollow of the mountain’s hand.
Flashing, dashing,
From the steeps the foaming cataract poured,
Over pathways
Which the mighty avalanche had scored.
Dim and ghostly
Rose the silvery clouds of wreathéd spray,
Rainbow-mantled,
Vanishing in upper air away.
Elfin shadows
O’er my lonely pathway leaped and played,
As the pine trees
Dreamily their murmuring branches swayed.
All the air seemed filled with voices,
Which I ne’er had thought to hear again;
And I fled, to leave behind me,
Sounds of pleasure close allied to pain.
Upward, onward, did I speed my way,
Nearer to the perfect source of day.
Awed by beauty and by terror,
Tearful, prayerful, did I sink,
Where the tender, blue-eyed gentian
Bloomed upon the glacier’s brink.

“Save me! O thou loving Lord!” I cried,
“From the unforeseen intrusion
Of this sad, but sweet delusion,
From this strange and cruel semblance
To the cherished love that long since died.

“Come up hither!”
Cried my unknown guide who went before.
“Come up hither!”
And I followed in the way once more,—
Upward, where the tempests gathered,
Where the lightnings crouched within their lair,
Where the mighty God of thunder
With his hammer smote the shuddering air,
Where the tall cliffs, battle-splintered,
Reared their lofty summits, bleak and bare;
Higher yet, where all my life-tide,
With the breath of Heaven grew chill;
And I felt my pulses quickened,
With a strange, electric thrill.

Not one blossom brightened in my pathway,
Not one lichen dared that wintry breath;
But far up above, and all around me,
Brooded awful silence, as of death.
And I walked where ragged precipices,
Overhanging wild and dark abysses,
Frowned upon the dizzy depths below;
Where the yawning chasms,
Rent by earthquake spasms,
Strove to fill their hungry throats with snow.
Burdened with a sense of solemn grandeur,
With a deeply reverent heart I trod
’Mid those awful and majestic altars
Of the Unknown God.
Musing deeply,
As I turned an angle of the rocky wall,
Lo! before me
Stood a figure, ghostly, gaunt, and tall;
Like the famous, fabled image,
Falling from Dardanian skies,
Wrapped in white, marmorial silence,
Did he greet my wondering eyes.

Straight upon the narrow pathway,
Fixed as fate, he seemed to stand,
With a widely yawning chasm,
And a wall on either hand.

“Come up hither! come up hither!”
Cried the voice that went before;
And my spirit leaped impatient
To obey the call once more.

“Let me pass, I pray thee,”
Said I in a calm and courteous tone;
But he only gazed upon me,
With a face as passionless as stone.

“Prithee, stand aside!” I said more firmly,
“For I may not stay;
I must reach the mountain-hights above me
Ere the close of day.”

But he stirred not, spake not, breathed not,
Only turned his stony eyes
Downward—to the yawning chasm,
Upward—to the distant skies.

“Wherefore,” said I,
With a slowly kindling wrath,
“Do you seek to stay my progress,
Do you stand across my path?
What am I to thee, or thou to me?
Stand aside, or prithee, sirrah,
Which is stronger we shall shortly see.

Like a statue did he stand—the same.
Then my smothered wrath waxed hotter;
“Demon! speak thy name and tell thine errand!”
Cried I, with a loudly ringing shout;
And his cold lips parted, as he answered,
“I am Doubt.

“Go no farther,
For a phantom lures thee on thy way;
Upward striving
Will not bring thee nearer to the perfect day.
In the valley
All is warmth, and rest, and kindly cheer;
Go no farther;
It is lone and very cold up here.

“Trust not to your erring Reason
All your aspirations to control;
Man grows ripe before the season
When he heeds the promptings of the soul.

“Come up hither! come up hither,”
Cried the tuneful voice again;
“Doubt should never counsel duty,
When the way of truth is plain.

“Stay!” replied the watchful demon;
“Thou shalt lend an ear to Doubt,
For, by Heaven! thou shalt not pass me
Until thou hast heard me out.
Thou art deeply cursed from the beginning,
All thy nature is corrupt with sinning;
God refuses thee his grace to-day;
Christ alone his righteous wrath can stay.
All thy prayerful aspiration
But retards thy soul’s salvation;
All the efforts of thy godless will
Make thy deep damnation deeper still.
O thou self-deluded dreamer!
O thou transcendental schemer!
Leave thine idle speculations,
Trances, visions, exaltations,
And thy toilsome upward progress stay.
By thy fallen, lost condition,
By the depths of thy perdition,
I have promised,
Yea, have sworn, to turn thee from this way.

“Come up hither! come up hither!”
Cried the voice persuasive from above.
Then I looked, and bending o’er me,
I beheld my long-lost angel love.

“Back!” I shouted to the demon.
“Never!” in a measured tone he said,
“Till the final resurrection,
Till the earth and sea give up their dead.”

Then I smote him—
Smote him in the forehead and the eyes;
And I shouted,
“I will not be cozened by your lies!
Go to cowards
With your Hebrew husks and pious pelf,
For my soul is older than the truth,
One with God himself.”

Then my blows fell fiercer, harder, hotter,
Till he yielded
Like the clay-formed vessel of a potter;
And I crashed into his brainless skull,
Smote his stony eyes out, cold and dull;
Into shards amorphous dashed his lips profane,
And, as brittle as a bubble,
Clove his shattered trunk in twain.
Then, as if God’s mill-stones surely
Had been given me in trust,
On the rock I stood securely,
And those fragments ground to dust.

But, O, God! what wondrous transformation
Seized me in its mighty grasp of power!
As a bud, by Nature’s potent magic,
Bursts at once into a perfect flower!
Like the record of a wise historian,
Lay unsealed the wondrous Book of Life;
Swelling grandly, like a chant Gregorian,
Perfect unison arose from strife;
And I knew then that this grim, defiant elf,
That this clay-born image, was my weaker self;
That this demon, Doubt, with which I held such strife,
Was the sense’s logic—the phenomena of life;
And as Perseus slew the fabled Gorgon,
Must this mocking fiend be met and slain,
That transfixed in cold and stony silence
Faith and Hope no longer might remain.
Only when the conscious soul asserted
What the flesh and sense so long concealed,
God within—One with the weak and human,
Did the Inner Mystery stand revealed.
O, what glorious consummation to my strife!
Death of Death! and Life unto Eternal Life!
All around, the grand and awful mountains
Hushed in silent reverence seemed to stand,
White and shining,
Like the pearly portals of the better land.
Then I heard the angels singing,
Soft and clear the sweet notes ringing,
Dropping gently like a golden rain
From the treasured wealth of day;
And I caught these words of blessing,
Floating down the heavenly way:—

Song of the Angels.

About This Book