O World! somewhat I have to say to thee.
O sin-sick, heart-sick, soul-sick, love-sick World!
So ailing art thou, both in part and particle,
That solid truth thy stomach ill digests.
Yet, since thou art my mother, I will love thee,
And heedless of thy frowns, “will speak right on.”
That which belongs to all men is least prized;
The thing most common is least understood.
That which is deep and silent is divine;
And there is nought on earth so craved, so common,
So misunderstood, or so divine, as Love.
When meted in proportion to man’s need,
“Measure for measure” it doth purify,
Exalt, and make him equal with the gods.
He feeds upon ambrosia, and his drink
Is nectar; high Olympus cannot yield
Delights more grateful to his soul and sense.
Parnassus fails his rapture to express,
And Helicon hath less of inspiration.
But, prithee, should he chance to drink too deep
Of the exhilarating draught,—should plunge
Him head and ears into this ’wildering flood,—
Mark, then, what marvellous diversions
From the centre of his gravity ensue.
Judgment is scouted—sober common sense
Yields to imagination’s airy flights;
Upon a swift-winged hippogriff he mounts,
To seek the fair Arcadia of his dreams.
He builds him castles—basks in moonshine—feeds
Among the lilies—pours his passion forth
In amorous canticles and burning sighs—
Makes him a bed of roses, and lies down
To revel in his rainbow-colored dreams—
Until some turn, some ill-begotten chance,
Most unexpectedly invades his peace,
And castles, moonshine, roses, rainbows fly,
And leave him to the stern realities of life.
Alas, poor Human Nature! Even fools
Must learn through sad experience to grow wise.
Love is the highest attribute of Deity;
And he who loves divinely is most blest.
It purgeth passion from the soul and sense,
And makes the man a unit in himself;
Head, eyes, hands, heart, all work in unison,
And beasts, and savages, and rudest hinds,
All feel alike its exercise of power.
Ambition cannot walk with it; for he
Who learns to live and love aright, loves all,
And finds preferment in the general weal.
Though, Proteus like, it takes a thousand forms,
It doth o’ercome all evil with its good,
Casteth out devils—sensuality, and sin,
And green-eyed jealousy, and hate; and like
Chrysostom, golden-mouthed, it doth attune
The words of common speech to sweet accord,
And gives significance to simplest things.
It buddeth out in tender infancy,
Like fresh-blown violets in the early spring,
And giveth form and fashion to all life.
For, by its character, it doth decide
What elements and essences the soul
Shall draw from contact with material things.
As roses draw their blushes, lilies whiteness,
Violets their azure, from the same dull earth,
So Love extracts the sweetnesses of Life,
And doth so mingle all within her crucible,
That she creates the difference between
Immortal souls. The fiery heart of youth,
Full of high aims and generous purposes of good,
Swells like the ocean-waves beneath the moon,
And brooketh no restraint, until it finds
Its living counterpart, and mergeth all
It hath of truth, and manliness, and might,
Into a second and a dearer self.
So goes the world! and strong necessity
Creates the law of action, whose results
Join issue with the love of God himself.
O jealous, wanton, ill-conceited World!
How little dost thou understand the deep
Significance and potency of Love!
Thou hast defiled thyself with gross perversions,
Till purity of love is but a jest,
Or reckoned with the fantasies of fools.
O, I would take thee, dear Humanity,
And set thee face to face with perfect Love.
She is thy mother. Love and Wisdom met
United by Eternal Power. The worlds
Sprang forth from chaos; and the love which brought
Them into being doth sustain them still.
The monad and the angel rest alike
Within its all-embracing arms; and life,
And death, with all that makes our mortal state,
Are cradled at the footstool of this power.
Then, sweet Humanity, thou favored child
Of God, look up! An everlasting chain
Doth bind thee to the mighty heart of all.
Love’s labor never can be lost. He who
Created, shall, through Love, perfect and save;
And that which hath such poor expression here,
Shall find fruition in a brighter sphere.

FOR A’ THAT.

[The following poem was given under the inspiration of Robert Burns.]

Is there a luckless wight on earth,
Oppressed wi’ care and a’ that,
Who holds his life as little worth,
His home is Heaven for a’ that—
For a’ that, and a’ that.
There’s muckle joy for a’ that;
He’s seen the warst o’ hell below,
His home is Heaven for a’ that.
Puir souls, in right not unco strong,
Through love and want and a’ that,
There sure is power to right their wrong,
And save their souls, for a’ that—
For a’ that, and a’ that.
The Lord is guid for a’ that;
The de’il himsel’ can turn and mend,
And come to Heaven for a’ that.
On Scotia’s hills the gowans spring,
The heather blooms, and a’ that;
The mavis and the merlé sing,
But Heaven’s my home for a’ that—
For a’ that, and a’ that.
I wadna’ change for a’ that.
He who once finds the Heaven aboon
Will not come back for a’ that.

WORDS O’ CHEER.

[Given under the inspiration of Robert Burns.]

Guid Friends:
Although not present to your sight,
I gie ye greeting here to-night;
Not claiming to be perfect quite,
Frae taint o’ passion,
Yet will I hauld my speech aright,
In guid Scotch fashion.
O, could some cantie[B] word o’ mine,
But make your careworn faces shine,
Or cause the hearts in grief that pine,
To throb with pleasure,
Then wad my cup to auld lang syne,
Fill to its measure.
The gracious powers above us, know
How sair a weight of want and woe
Must be the lot of those who go
Through Earth to Heaven;
But aye, the life aboon will show
Wherefore ’twas given.
And that guid God who loves us a’,
Who sees the chittering[C] sparrow fa’,
Will never turn his face awa’,
Though you should stray;
But all his wandering sheep will ca’
Back to the way.
So muckle[D] are the cares o’ men,
That Truth at times is hard to ken,
And Error, to her grousome[E] den,
So dark and eerie,
Wiles those who have na heart to men’;[F]
Puir wanderers weary.
Alack! how mony a luckless wight
Has gane agley[G] in Error’s night,
Not that he had less love for right
Than countless ithers;
But that he lacked the keener sight
Of his guid brithers.
Lo! Calvin, Knox, and Luther, cry
“I have the Truth”—“and I”—“and I.”—
“Puir sinners! if ye gang agley,
The de’il will hae ye,
And then the Lord will stand abeigh,
And will na save ye.”
But hoolie[H] hoolie! Na sae fast;
When Gabriél shall blaw his blast,
And Heaven and Earth awa’ have passed,
These lang syne saints,
Shall find baith de’il and hell at last,
Mere pious feints.
The upright, honest-hearted man,
Who strives to do the best he can,
Need never fear the Church’s ban,
Or hell’s damnation;
For God will need na special plan
For his salvation.
The one who knows our deepest needs,
Recks little how man counts his beads,
For Righteousness is not in creeds,
Or solemn faces;
But rather lies in kindly deeds,
And Christian graces,
Then never fear; wi’ purpose leal,[I]
A head to think, a heart to feel
For human woe and human weal,
Na preachin’ loun[J]
Your sacred birthright e’er can steal
To Heaven aboon.
Tak’[K] tent o’ truth, and heed this well:
The man who sins makes his ain hell;
There’s na waurse de’il than himsel’;
But God is strongest:
And when puir human hearts rebel,
He haulds out longest.
With loving kindness will he wait,
Till all the prodigals o’ fate
Return unto their fair estate,
And blessings mony;
Nor will he shut the gowden gate
Of Heaven on ony.

RESURREXI.

A Remarkable Poem.—The following striking poem was recited by Miss Lizzie Doten, a Spiritual trance-speaker, at the close of a recent lecture in Boston. She professed to give it impromptu, as far as she was concerned, and to speak under the direct influence of Edgar A. Poe. Whatever may be the truth about its production, the poem is, in several respects, a remarkable one. Miss Doten is, apparently, incapable of originating such a poem. If it was written for her by some one else, and merely committed to memory and recited by her, the poem is, nevertheless, wonderful as a reproduction of the singular music and alliteration of Poe’s style, and as manifesting the same intensity of feeling. Whoever wrote the poem must have been exceedingly familiar with Poe, and deeply in sympathy with his spirit. But if Miss Doten is honest, and the poem originated as she said it did, it is unquestionably the most astonishing thing that Spiritualism has produced. It does not follow, necessarily, in that case, that Poe himself made the poem,—although we are asked to believe a great many spiritual things on less cogent evidence,—but it is, in any view of it that may be taken, a very singular and mysterious production. There is, in the second verse, an allusion to a previous poem that purported to come from the spirit of Poe, which was published several years since, and attracted much attention, but the following poem is of a higher order, and much more like Poe than the other.”—Springfield Republican.

From the throne of Life Eternal,
From the home of love supernal,

Where the angel feet make music over all the starry floor—
Mortals, I have come to meet you,
Come with words of peace to greet you,
And to tell you of the glory that is mine forevermore.
Once before I found a mortal
Waiting at the heavenly portal—
Waiting but to catch some echo from that ever-opening door;
Then I seized his quickened being,
And through all his inward seeing,
Caused my burning inspiration in a fiery flood to pour!
Now I come more meekly human,
And the wreak lips of a woman
Touch with fire from off the altar, not with burnings as of yore;
But in holy love descending,
With her chastened being blending,
I would fill your souls with music from the bright celestial shore.
As one heart yearns for another,
As a child turns to its mother,
From the golden gates of glory turn I to the earth once more,
Where I drained the cup of sadness,
Where my soul was stung to madness,
And life’s bitter, burning billows swept my burdened being o’er.
Here the harpies and the ravens,—
Human vampyres, sordid cravens,—
Preyed upon my soul and substance till I writhed in anguish sore;
Life and I then seemed mismated,
For I felt accursed and fated,
Like a restless, wrathful spirit, wandering on the Stygian shore.
Tortured by a nameless yearning,
Like a frost-fire, freezing, burning,
Did the purple, pulsing life-tide through its fevered channels pour,
Till the golden bowl—Life’s token
Into shining shards was broken,
And my chained and chafing spirit leaped from out its prison door.
But while living, striving, dying,
Never did my soul cease crying,
“Ye who guide the Fates and Furies, give, O give me, I implore,
From the myriad hosts of nations,
From the countless constellations,
One pure spirit that can love me—one that I, too, can adore!”
Through this fervent aspiration
Found my fainting soul salvation,
For from out its blackened fire-crypts did my quickened spirit soar;
And my beautiful ideal—
Not too saintly to be real—
Burst more brightly on my vision than the loved and lost Lenore.
’Mid the surging seas she found me,
With the billows breaking round me,
And my saddened, sinking spirit in her arms of love upbore;
Like a lone one, weak and weary,
Wandering in the midnight dreary,
On her sinless, saintly bosom, brought me to the heavenly shore.
Like the breath of blossoms blending,
Like the prayers of saints ascending,
Like the rainbow’s seven-hued glory, blend our souls forevermore;
Earthly love and lust enslaved me,
But divinest love hath saved me,
And I know now, first and only, how to love and to adore.
O, my mortal friends and brothers!
We are each and all another’s,
And the soul that gives most freely from its treasure hath the more;
Would you lose your life, you find it,
And in giving love, you bind it
Like an amulet of safety, to your heart forevermore.

THE PROPHECY OF VALA.

[Given under the inspiration of Edgar A. Poe.]

The Prophecy of Vala is founded on the Scandinavian mythology. Odin, the great All Father, is the sovereign power of the universe; Thor, a lesser god, of whom it is said, “his mighty hammer smote thunder out of every thing.” Baldur was a son of Odin and Frigga. He was slain by Hörder, his blind brother, who was persuaded to the act by Loké, an evil spirit, corresponding to the Hebrew or Christian devil. The Valkyrien were the genii of the battle-field. The three Nornen were the Fates who watered the tree Yggdrasill, at whose roots it is said that a dragon was constantly gnawing. The Heimskringla was the circle of the universe. Vala was a seeress, or prophetess, who was summoned from the dead by Odin, to tell of the fate of Baldur; but on her appearance refused to do so, and to the astonishment of all, prophesied the death of all the sons of Odin at the day of Ragnaroc, which corresponds to the day of judgment, with the exception that it was also the day of reconstruction, or renewal of the world. The Prophecy of Vala, as given in the old Icelandic Edda, has been used with perfect freedom, to present the idea that Good, though apparently overcome of Evil, should ultimately triumph.—Explanation by Poe.

I have walked with the Fates and the Furies ’mid the wrecks of the mighty Past,
I have stood in the giant shadows which the ages have backward cast,

And I’ve heard the voices of prophets come down in a lengthening chain,
Translating the Truth Eternal, and making its meaning plain;
Backward still, ever backward, ’mid wreck and ruin I trod,
Seeking Life’s secret sources, and the primal truths of God.
“Tell me,” I cried, “O Prophet, thou shade of the mighty Past,
What of the Truth in the future? Is its horoscope yet cast?
Thou didst give it its birth and being, thou didst cradle it in thy breast—
Show me its shining orbit, and the place of its final rest!”
A sound like the restless earthquake! a crash like the “crack of doom”!
And a fiery fulmination streamed in through the frightened gloom.
I stood in the halls of Odin, and the great All Father shone
Like the centre and sun of Being, ’mid the glories of his throne;
And Thor, with his mighty hammer, upraised in his giant hand,
Stood ready to wake the thunder at his sovereign Lord’s command.
“Ho, Thor!” said the mighty Odin, “our omens are all of ill,
For the dragon gnaweth sharply at the roots of Yggdrasill;
I hear the wild Valkyrien, as they shriek on the battle-plain,
And the moans of the faithful Nornen, as they weep over Baldur slain.
A woe to the serpent Loké, and to Hörder’s reckless ruth,
For Goodness is slain of Evil, and Falsehood hath conquered Truth!
Now call thou on mystic Vala, as she sleeps in the grave of Time,
Where the hoary age hath written her name in a frosty rime;
She can tell when the sun will darken, when the stars shall cease to burn,
When the sleeping dead shall waken, and when Baldur shall return.”
A sound like the rushing tempest, and the wondrous hammer fell,
And the great Heimskringla shuddered, and swayed like a mighty bell.
There were mingled murmurs and discords, like the wailing of troubled souls;
Like the gnomes at their fiery forges—like the bowlings of restless ghouls.
Then out of the fiery covert of the tempest and the storm,
Like a vision of troubled slumber, came a woman’s stately form.
There fell a hush as at midnight, when the sheeted dead awake,
And even the silence shuddered, as her words of power she spake:
“Mighty Odin, I am Vala,
I have heard your thunder-call,
I have heard the woful wailing
Sounding forth from Wingolf’s hall;
And I know that beauteous Baldur,
Loved of all the gods, is slain—
That the evil Loké triumphs,
And on Hörder rests the stain.
But my words shall fail to tell you
Aught concerning him you mourn,
For the leaves that bear the record
From the Tree of Life are torn;
And while Hecla’s fires shall glow,
Or the bubbling Geysers flow,
Of his fate no one shall know—
Understand you this, or no?
“I will sing a solemn Saga,
I will chant a Runic rhyme,
Weave a wild, prophetic Edda,
From the scattered threads of time:
Know, O Odin,—mighty Odin,—
That thy sons shall all be slain,
Where the wild Valkyrien gather,
On the bloody battle plain;
And thy throne itself shall tremble
With the stern, resistless shock,
Which shall rend the world asunder
At the day of Ragnaroc.
Other stars the night shall know,
From the rock shall waters flow,
And from ruin beauty grow.
Understand you this, or no?
“Vainly shall the faithful Nornen
Water drooping Yggdrasill,
For the wrathful, restless dragon
At its roots is gnawing still.
Loké’s evil arts shall triumph,
Hörder’s eyes be dark with night,
Till the day of re-creation
Brings the buried Truth to light:
Then a greater god than Odin,
Over all the worlds shall reign,
And my Saga’s mystic meaning,
As the sunlight shall be plain.
Out of evil good shall grow—
Doubt me not, for time shall show.
Understand you this, or no?
Fare you well! I go—I go!
There came a voice as of thunder, with a gleam of lurid light,
And the mystic Vala vanished like a meteor of the night;
Then I saw that the truth of the present is but the truth of the past,
But each phase is greater, and grander, and mightier than the last—
That the past is ever prophetic of that which is yet to be,
And that God reveals his glory by slow and distinct degree;
Yet still are the nations weeping o’er the graves of the Truth and Right:
Lo! I summon another Vala—let her prophesy to-night.
With the amaranth, and the myrtle, and the asphodel on her brow,
Still wet with the dew of the kingdom, doth she stand before you now:
  “Not with sound of many thunders,
Not with miracles and wonders,
Would I herald forth my coming from the peaceful spirit-shore;
But in God’s own love descending,
With your aspirations blending,
I would teach you of the future, that you watch and weep no more.
  “God is God from the creation;
Truth, alone, is man’s salvation:
But the God that now you worship soon shall be your God no more;
For the soul, in its unfolding,
Evermore its thought remoulding,
Learns more truly, in its progress, ‘how to love and to adore!’
  “Evil is of Good, twin brother,
Born of God, and of none other:
And though Truth seems slain of Error, through the ills that men deplore,
Yet, still nearer to perfection,
She shall know a resurrection,
Passing on from ceaseless glory, unto glory evermore.
  “From the truths of former ages,
From the world’s close-lettered pages,
Man shall learn to meet more bravely all the life that lies before;
For the day of retribution
Is the final restitution
Of the good, the true, the holy, which shall live forevermore!
‘Understand you this, or no?
Fare you well! I go—I go!’

THE KINGDOM.

[Given under the inspiration of Poe.]

“And I saw no temple therein.”—Rev. 21:22.

Twas the ominous month of October—
How the memories rise in my soul!
How they swell like a sea in my soul!—
When a spirit, sad, silent, and sober,
Whose glance was a word of control,
Drew me down to the dark Lake Avernus,
In the desolate Kingdom of Death—
To the mist-covered Lake of Avernus,
In the ghoul-haunted Kingdom of Death.
And there, as I shivered and waited,
I talked with the Souls of the Dead—
With those whom the living call dead;
The lawless, the lone, and the hated,

Who broke from their bondage and fled—
From madness and misery fled.
Each word was a burning eruption
That leapt from a crater of flame—
A red, lava-tide of corruption,
That out of life’s sediment came,
From the scoriac natures God gave them,
Compounded of glory and shame.
“Aboard!” cries our pilot and leader;
Then wildly we rush to embark,
We recklessly rush to embark;
And forth in our ghostly Ellida[L]
We swept in the silence and dark—
O God! on that black Lake Avernus,
Where vampyres drink even the breath,
On that terrible Lake of Avernus,
Leading down to the whirlpool of Death!
It was there the Eumenides[M] found us,
In sight of no shelter or shore—
No beacon or light from the shore.
They lashed up the white waves around us,
We sank in the waters’ wild roar;
But not to the regions infernal,
Through billows of sulphurous flame,
But unto the City Eternal,
The Home of the Blesséd, we came.
To the gate of the Beautiful City,
All fainting and weary we pressed,
Impatient and hopeful we pressed.
“O, Heart of the Holy, take pity,
And welcome us home to our rest!
Pursued by the Fates and the Furies,
In darkness and danger we fled—
From the pitiless Fates and the Furies,
Through the desolate realms of the Dead.”
Jure Divino, I here claim admission!”
Exclaimed a proud prelate, who rushed to the gate;
Ave Sanctissima, hear my petition
Holy Saint Peter; O, why should I wait?
O, fons pietatis, O, glorious flood,
My soul is washed clean in the Lamb’s precious blood.
Like the song of a bird that yet lingers,
When the wide-wandering warbler has flown;
Like the wind-harp by Eolus blown,
As if touched by the lightest of fingers,
The portal wide open was thrown;
And we saw—not the holy Saint Peter,
Not even an angel of light,
But a vision far dearer and sweeter,
Not brilliant nor blindingly bright,
But marvellous unto the sight!
In the midst of the mystical splendor,
Stood a beautiful, beautiful child—
A golden-haired, azure-eyed child.
With a look that was touching and tender,
She stretched out her white hand and smiled:
“Ay, welcome, thrice welcome, poor mortals,
O, why do ye linger and wait?
Come fearlessly in at these portals—
No warder keeps watch at the gate!”
Gloria Deo! Te Deum laudamus!
Exclaimed the proud prelate, “I’m safe into Heaven;
Through the blood of the Lamb, and the martyrs who claim us,
My soul has been purchased, my sins are forgiven!
I tread where the saints and the martyrs have trod—
Lead on, thou fair child, to the temple of God!”
The child stood in silence and wonder,
Then bowed down her beautiful head,
And even as fragrance is shed
From the lily the waves have swept under,
She meekly and tenderly said—
So simply and truthfully said:
“In vain do ye seek to behold Him;
He dwells in no temple apart;
The height of the Heavens cannot hold him,
And yet he is here in my heart—
He is here, and he will not depart.”
Then out from the mystical splendor,
The swift-changing, crystalline light,
The rainbow-hued, scintillant light,
Gleamed faces more touching and tender
Than ever had greeted our sight—
Our sin-blinded, death-darkened sight;
And they sang: “Welcome home to the Kingdom,
Ye earth-born and serpent-beguiled;
The Lord is the light of this Kingdom,
And His temple the heart of a child—
Of a trustful and teachable child,
Ye are born to the life of the Kingdom—
Receive, and believe, as a child.”

THE CRADLE OR COFFIN.

[Given under the inspiration of Poe.]

The Cradle or Coffin, the robe or the shroud,
Of which shall a mortal most truly be proud?
The cradle rocks light as a boat on the billow,
The child lies asleep on his soft, downy pillow,
And the mother sits near with her love-lighted eyes,—
Sits watching her treasure, and dreamily singing,
While the cradle keeps time, like a pendulum swinging,
And notes every moment of bliss as it flies.
Lullaby baby—watch o’er his rest!
The dear little fledgling asleep in his nest.
How blest is that slumber—how calm he reposes,
With his sweet, pouting lips, and his cheeks flushed with roses!

O, God of the Innocent, would it might last!
But know, thou fond mother, beyond thy perceiving,
The Parcæ are near him, and steadily weaving
The meshes of Fate which around him they cast!
Lullaby baby—let him not wake!
Soon shall the bubble of infancy break;
Life, with its terrors and fears, shall surround him,
Evil and Good with strange problems confound him,
And, as the charmed bird to the serpent is drawn,
The demons of hell, from his proudest position,
Shall drag down his soul to the depths of perdition,
Till he bitterly curses the day he was born!
The Cradle or Coffin, the blanket or pall—
O, which brings a blessing of peace unto all?
How still is the Coffin! No undulant motion;
Becalmed like a boat on the breast of the ocean.
And there lies the child, with his half-curtained eyes,
While his mother stands near him, her love-watch still keeping,
And kisses his pale lips with wailing and weeping,
Till her anguish is dumb, or can speak but in sighs.
He needs not a lullaby now for his rest;
The fledgling has fluttered, and flown from his nest.
He starts not, he breathes not, he knows no awaking,
Though sad eyes are weeping and fond hearts are breaking.
O, God of all mercy, how strange are thy ways!
Yet know, thou fond mother, beyond thy perceiving,
The angels who took him are tenderly weaving
His vestments of beauty, his garments of praise.
O, call him not back to earth’s weariness now,
For blossoms unfading encircle his brow;
From glory to glory forever ascending,
His soul with the soul of the Infinite blending,
Great luminous truths on his being shall dawn.
With no doubts to distract him, or stay his endeavor,
He shall bless in his progress, forever and ever,
The day that his soul to the Kingdom was born.
The Cradle or Coffin, the robe or the shroud,
Of which shall a mortal most truly be proud?
The Cradle or Coffin, the blanket or pall,
O, which brings a blessing of peace unto all?
The Cradle or Coffin, both places of rest—
Tell us, O mortals, which like ye the best?

THE STREETS OF BALTIMORE.

Edgar A. Poe.—As the circumstances attendant upon the death of Poe are not generally known, it may be well to present the facts in connection with the following poem. Having occasion to pass through Baltimore a few days before his intended marriage with a lady of family and fortune in Virginia, Poe met with some of his old associates, who induced him to drink with them, although, as we are informed, he had entirely abstained for a year. This aroused the appetite which had so long slumbered within him, and in a short time he wandered forth into the street in a state of drunken delirium, and was found next morning literally dying from exposure. He was taken to a hospital, and on the 7th of October, 1849, at the age of thirty-eight, he closed his troubled life. The tortures and terrors of that night of suffering are vividly portrayed in the following poem, composed in spirit-life, and given by him through the mediumship of Miss Lizzie Doten, at the conclusion of her lecture in Baltimore, on Sunday evening, January 11, 1863.”—Banner of Light.