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Title: Poems from the Inner Life
Author: Doten, Lizzie
Language: English
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                            THE INNER LIFE.


                             LIZZIE DOTEN.

                       *       *       *       *       *

                “And my soul from out that shadow
                  Hath been lifted evermore.”      POE.

                “The kingdom of Heaven is within you.”

                       *       *       *       *       *

                          FOURTEENTH EDITION.

                       COLBY & RICH, PUBLISHERS,
                          9 Montgomery Place.

      Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863 by
                           ELIZABETH DOTEN,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts

                          ELECTROTYPED AT THE
                      BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY,
                            4 SPRING LANE.



A WORD TO THE WORLD (PREFATORY).                                       v


THE PRAYER OF THE SORROWING,                                           3

THE SONG OF TRUTH,                                                     6

THE EMBARKATION,                                                       9

KEPLER’S VISION,                                                      14

LOVE AND LATIN,                                                       18

THE SONG OF THE NORTH,                                                21

THE BURIAL OF WEBSTER,                                                26

THE PARTING OF SIGURD AND GERDA,                                      31

THE MEETING OF SIGURD AND GERDA,                                      35


THE SPIRIT-CHILD. BY “JENNIE.”                                        41

RECONCILIATION,                                                       48

HOPE FOR THE SORROWING,                                               54

COMPENSATION,                                                         57

THE EAGLE OF FREEDOM,                                                 63

MISTRESS GLENARE. BY “MARIAN,”                                        66

LITTLE JOHNNY,                                                        70

“BIRDIE’S” SPIRIT-SONG,                                               73

MY SPIRIT-HOME. [A. W. SPRAGUE.]                                      76

I STILL LIVE. [A. W. SPRAGUE.]                                        80

LIFE. [SHAKSPEARE.]                                                   86

LOVE. [SHAKSPEARE.]                                                   92

FOR A’ THAT. [BURNS.]                                                 97

WORDS O’ CHEER. [BURNS.]                                              99

RESURREXI. [POE.]                                                    104

THE PROPHECY OF VALA. [POE.]                                         109

THE KINGDOM. [POE.]                                                  118

THE CRADLE OR COFFIN. [POE.]                                         124

THE STREETS OF BALTIMORE. [POE.]                                     128

THE MYSTERIES OF GODLINESS. A LECTURE.                               134

FAREWELL TO EARTH. [POE.]                                            162


In presenting this volume to the public, I trust that I may be allowed,
without incurring the charge of egotism, to say somewhat concerning my
spiritual experience, and the manner in which these poems were
originated. I am, in a measure, under the necessity of doing this, lest
some over-anxious friend, or would-be critic, should undertake the work
for me, and thereby place me, either unconsciously or intentionally, in
a false position before the public.

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

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,--

                                “I will sunder, and forever,
    Every tie of _human passion_ that can bind my soul to Earth--
    Every _slavish_ tie that binds me to the things of little worth.”

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

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.

              “Let Faith be given
    To the still tones that oft our being waken--
              They are of Heaven.”

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!








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

                    God! hear my prayer!
    Thou who hast poured the essence of thy life
      Into this urn, this feeble urn of clay;
    Thou who amid the tempest’s gloom and strife
      Art the lone star that guides me on my way;
    When my crushed heart, by constant striving torn,
      Flies shuddering from its own impurity,
    And my faint spirit, by its sorrows worn,
      Turns with a cry of anguish unto thee--
                Hear me, O God! my God!

    O, this strange mingling in of Life and Death,
      Of Soul and Substance! Let me comprehend
    The hidden secret of life’s fleeting breath,
      My being’s destiny, its aim and end.
    Show me the impetus that urged me forth,
      Upon my lone and burning pathway driven;
    The secret force that binds me down to earth,
      While my sad spirit yearns for home and heaven--
                Hear me, O God! my God!

    The ruby life-drops from my heart are wrung,
      By the deep conflict of my soul in prayer;
    The words lie burning on my feeble tongue;
      Aid me, O Father! let me not despair.
    Save, Lord! I perish! Save me, ere I die!
      My rebel spirit mocks at thy control--
    The raging billows rise to drown my cry;
      The floods of anguish overwhelm my soul--
                Hear me, O God! my God!

    Peace! peace! O, wilful, wayward heart, be still!
      For, lo! the messenger of God is near;
    Bow down submissive to the Father’s will,
      In “perfect love” that “casteth out all fear.”
    O, pitying Spirit from the home above!
      No longer shall my chastened heart rebel;
    Fold me, O fold me in thine arms of love!
      I know my Father “doeth all things well;”
    I will not doubt his changeless love again.
                Amen! My heart repeats, Amen!


    From the unseen throne of the Great Unknown,
        From the Soul of All, I came;
    Not with the rock of the earthquake’s shock,
        And not with the wasting flame.
    But silent and deep is my onward sweep,
        Through the depths of the boundless sky;
    I stand sublime, through the lapse of time,
        And where God is, there am I.

    In the early years, when the youthful spheres,
        From the depths of Chaos sprung,
    When the heavens grew bright with the new-born light,
        And the stars in chorus sung--
    To that holy sound, through the space profound,
        ’Mid their glittering ranks I trod;
    For I am a part of the Central Heart,
        Co-equal and one with God.

    The world is my child. Though wilful and wild,
        Yet I know that she loves me still,
    For she thinks I fled with her holy dead,
        Because of her stubborn will;
    And she weeps at night, when the angels light
        Their watch-fires over the sky,
    Like a maid o’er the grave of her loved and brave;
        But the Truth can never die.

    One by one, like sparks _from_ the sun,
        I have counted the souls that came
    From the hand Divine;--all, all are mine,
        And I call them by my name.
    One by one, like sparks _to_ the sun,
        I shall see them all return;
    Though tempest-tost, yet they are not lost,
        And not one shall cease to burn.

    I only speak to the lowly and meek,
        To the simple and child-like heart,
    But I leave the proud to their glittering shroud,
        And the tricks of their cunning art.
    Like a white-winged dove from the home of love,
        Through the airy space untrod,
    I come at the cry which is heard on high,--
        “Hear me, O God! my God!”


“So they left that goodly and pleasant city, which had been their
resting-place near twelve years. But they knew they were _pilgrims_, and
looked not much to those things; but lifted their eyes to heaven, their
dearest country, and quieted their spirits.”--_E. Winslow._

    The band of Pilgrim exiles in tearful silence stood,
    While thus outspake, in parting, John Robinson the good:
    “Fare thee well, my brave Miles Standish! thou hast a trusty sword,
    But not with carnal weapons shalt thou glorify the Lord.
    Fare thee well, good Elder Brewster! thou art a man of prayer;
    Commend the flock I give thee to the holy Shepherd’s care.
    And thou, belovéd Carver, what shall I say to thee?
    I have need, in this my sorrow, that thou shouldst comfort me.
    In the furnace of affliction must all be sharply tried;
    But nought prevails against us, if the Lord be on our side.
    Farewell, farewell, my people!--go, and stay not the hand,
    But precious seed of Freedom sow ye broadcast through the land.
    Ye may scatter it in sorrow, and water it with tears,
    But rejoice for those who gather the fruit in after years;
    Ay! rejoice that ye may leave them an altar unto God,
    On the holy soil of Freedom, where no tyrant’s foot hath trod.
    All honor to our sovereign, his majesty King James,
    But the King of kings above us the highest homage claims.”
    Upon the deck together they knelt them down and prayed,
    The husband and the father, the matron and the maid;
    The broad blue heavens above them, bright with the summer’s glow,
    And the wide, wide waste of waters, with its treacherous waves below;
    Around, the loved and cherished, whom they should see no more,
    And the dark, uncertain future stretching dimly on before.
    O, well might Edward Winslow look sadly on his bride!
    O, well might fair Rose Standish press to her chieftain’s side!
    For with crucified affections they bowed the knee in prayer,
    And besought that God would aid them to suffer and to bear;
    To bear the cross of sorrow--a broader shield of love
    Than the Royal Cross of England, that proudly waved above.
    The balmy winds of summer swept o’er the glittering seas;
    It brought the sign of parting--the white sails met the breeze;
    One farewell gush of sorrow, one prayerful blessing more,
    And the bark that bore the exiles glided slowly from the shore.
    “Thus they left that goodly city,” o’er stormy seas to roam;
    “But they knew that they were pilgrims,” and this world was not
       their home.

    There is a God in heaven, whose purpose none may tell;
    There is a God in heaven, who doeth all things well:
    And thus an infant nation was cradled on the deep,
    While hosts of holy angels were set to guard its sleep;
    No seer, no priest, or prophet, read its horoscope at birth,
    No bard in solemn saga sung its destiny to earth,
    But slowly,--slowly,--slowly as the acorn from the sod,
    It grew in strength and grandeur, and spread its arms abroad;
    The eyes of distant nations turned towards that goodly tree,
    And they saw how fair and pleasant were the fruits of Liberty!
    Like earth’s convulsive motion before the earthquake’s shock,
    Like the foaming of the ocean around old Plymouth Rock,
    So the deathless love of Freedom--the majesty of Right--
    In all kindred, and all nations, is rising in its might;
    And words of solemn warning come from the honored dead--
    “Woe, woe to the oppressor if righteous blood be shed!
    Rush not blindly on the future! heed the lessons of the past!
    For the feeble and the faithful are the conquerors at last.”


“How grand the spectacle of a mind thus restless--thirsting with
unquenchable appetite after beauty and harmony! Never was there a finer
example of a spirit too vast to be satiated with the few truths around
it, or one that more emphatically foreboded a necessary
immortality.”--_Prof. R. P. Nichol._

    Upon the clear, bright, northern sky,
      Aurora’s rainbow arches gleamed,
    While, from their radiant source on high,
      The countless host of evening beamed;
    Each moving in its path of light--
      Those paths by Science then untrod--
    The silent guardians of the night,
      The watchers by the throne of God.

    Far up above the gloomy wood,--
      The wavy, murmuring wood of pine,--
    Upon the mountain side, there stood
      A worshipper at Nature’s shrine.
    His spirit, like a breathing lyre,
      At each celestial touch awoke,
    And burning with a sacred fire,
      His voice the solemn silence broke.

    “O, glittering host! O, golden line!
      I would I had an angel’s ken,
    Your deepest secrets to divine,
      And read your mysteries to men.
    The glorious truth is in my soul,
      The solemn witness in my heart--
    Although ye move as one great whole,
      Each bears his own appointed part.”

       *       *       *       *       *

    He slept. No! in a blissful trance
      The feebler powers of Nature lay,
    While upward, o’er the vast expanse,
      His eager spirit swept away,--
    Away into those fields of light,
      By human footsteps unexplored;
    Order and beauty met his sight--
      He saw, he wondered, and adored!

    And o’er the vast area of space,
      And through the height and depth profound,
    Each starless void and shining place
      Was filled with harmony of sound.
    Now, swelling like the voice of seas,
      With the full, rushing tide of years,
    Then, sighing like an evening breeze,
      It died among the distant spheres.

    Rich goblets filled with “Samian wine,”
      Or “Life’s elixir, sparkling high,”
    Could not impart such joy divine
      As that full chorus of the sky.
    He might have heard the Orphean lute,
      Or caught the sound of Memnon’s lyre,
    And yet his lips could still be mute,
      Nor feel one spark of kindred fire.

    But now, o’er ravished soul and sense,
      Such floods of living music broke,
    That, filled with rapture too intense,
      His disenchanted spirit woke.
    Awoke! but not to lose the sound,
      The echo of that holy song;
    He breathed it to the world around,
      And others bore the strain along.

    O, unto few the power is given
      To pass beyond the bounds of Time,
    And lift the radiant veil of Heaven,
      To view her mysteries sublime.
    Yet Thou, in whose majestic light
      The Source of Knowledge lies concealed,
    Prepare us to receive aright
      The truths that yet shall be revealed.



    Dear girls, never marry for knowledge,
      (Though that should of course form a part,)
    For often the head, in a college,
      Gets wise at the cost of the heart.
    Let me tell you a fact that is real--
      I once had a beau in my youth,
    My brightest and best “_beau ideal_”
      Of manliness, goodness, and truth.

    O, he talked of the Greeks and the Romans,
      Of Normans, and Saxons, and Celts,
    And he quoted from Virgil, and Homer,
      And Plato, and ---- somebody else.
    And he told me his deathless affection,
      By means of a thousand strange herbs,
    With numberless words in connection,
      Derived from the roots of Greek verbs.

    One night, as a sly innuendo,
      When Nature was mantled in snow,
    He wrote in the frost on the window,
      A sweet word in Latin--“amo.”
    O, it needed no words for expression,
      For that I had long understood;
    But there was his written confession--
      Present tense and indicative mood.

    But O, how man’s passion will vary!
      For scarcely a year had passed by,
    When he changed the “amo” to “amare,”
      But instead of an “e” was a “y.”
    Yes, a Mary had certainly taken
      The heart once so fondly my own,
    And I, the rejected, forsaken,
      Was left to reflection alone.

    Since then I’ve a horror of Latin,
      And students uncommonly smart;
    True love, one should always put that in,
      To balance the head by the heart.
    To be a fine scholar and linguist
      Is much to one’s credit, I know,
    But “I love” should be said in plain English,
      And not with a Latin “amo.”


“In March, of 1854, says the Cleveland Herald, several months before the
arrival of Dr. Rae, with his news of the probable death of the brave Sir
John Franklin and his faithful comrades, we copied from the Lily of the
Valley for 1854, a beautiful poem by Miss Lizzie Doten, in reference to
these adventurers. The verses are touching and solemn as the sound of a
passing bell, and appear _almost prophetic_ of the news that afterwards
came. ‘The Song of the North’ again becomes deeply interesting as
connected with the thrilling account brought home by the Fox--the last
vessel sent in search of the lost adventurers to the icy North, and the
last that will now ever be sent on such an expedition.”--_Buffalo Daily


    “Away, away!” cried the stout Sir John,
      “While the blossoms are on the trees,
    For the summer is short, and the times speeds on
      As we sail for the northern seas.
    Ho! gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James!
      We will startle the world, I trow,
    When we find a way through the Northern seas
      That never was found till now!
    A good stout ship is the ‘Erebus,’
      As ever unfurled a sail,
    And the ‘Terror’ will match with as brave a one
      As ever outrode a gale.”

    So they bade farewell to their pleasant homes,
      To the hills and the valleys green,
    With three hearty cheers for their native isle,
      And three for the English Queen.
    They sped them away, beyond cape and bay,
      Where the day and the night are one--
    Where the hissing light in the heavens grew bright,
      And flamed like a midnight sun.
    There was nought below, save the fields of snow,
      That stretched to the icy pole;
    And the Esquimaux, in his strange canoe,
      Was the only living soul!

    Along the coast, like a giant host,
      The glittering icebergs frowned,
    Or they met on the main, like a battle plain,
      And crashed with a fearful sound!
    The seal and the bear, with a curious stare,
      Looked down from the frozen heights,
    And the stars in the skies, with their great, wild eyes,
      Peered out from the Northern Lights.
    The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James,
      And even the stout Sir John,
    Felt a doubt, like a chill, through their warm hearts thrill,
      As they urged the good ships on.

    They sped them away, beyond cape and bay,
      Where even the tear-drops freeze,
    But no way was found, by a strait or sound,
      To sail through the Northern seas;
    They sped them away, beyond cape and bay,
      And they sought, but they sought in vain,
    For no way was found, through the ice around,
      To return to their homes again.
    Then the wild waves rose, and the waters froze,
      Till they closed like a prison wall;
    And the icebergs stood in the sullen flood,
      Like their jailers, grim and tall.
    O God! O God!--it was hard to die
      In that prison house of ice!
    For what was fame, or a mighty name,
      When life was the fearful price?
    The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James,
      And even the stout Sir John,
    Had a secret dread, and their hopes all fled,
      As the weeks and the months passed on.
    Then the Ice King came, with his eyes of flame,
      And looked on that fated crew;
    His chilling breath was as cold as death,
      And it pierced their warm hearts through!
    A heavy sleep, that was dark and deep,
      Came over their weary eyes,
    And they dreamed strange dreams of the hills and streams,
      And the blue of their native skies.

    The Christmas chimes, of the good old times,
      Were heard in each dying ear,
    And the dancing feet, and the voices sweet
      Of their wives and their children dear!
    But it faded away--away--away!
      Like a sound on a distant shore,
    And deeper and deeper grew the sleep,
      Till they slept to wake no more.

    O, the sailor’s wife, and the sailor’s child,
      They will weep, and watch, and pray;
    And the Lady Jane, she will hope in vain,
      As the long years pass away!
    The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James,
      And the good Sir John have found
    An open way, to a quiet bay,
      And a port where we all are bound!
    Let the waters roar on the ice-bound shore,
      That circles the frozen pole;
    But there is no sleep, and no grave so deep,
      That can hold a human soul.


    Low and solemn be the requiem above the nation’s dead;
    Let fervent prayers be uttered, and farewell blessings said!
    Close by the sheltering homestead, beneath the household tree,
    Where oft his footsteps lingered, here let the parting be!
    Draw near in solemn silence, with slow and measured tread;
    Come with the brow uncovered, and gaze upon the dead!
    How like a fallen hero, in silent rest he lies!
    With the seal of Death upon him, and its dimness in his eyes!
    Speak! but there comes no answer. That voice of power is still
    Which woke the slumbering Senate as with a giant’s will!--
    That voice, which rang so proudly back from the echoing walls,
    In court and civic council, and legislative halls;
    Which summoned back those spirits, who long were mute and still,--
    The Pilgrim sires of Plymouth--the dead of Bunker Hill,--
    And in their silent presence gave to the past a tongue
    Like that which roused the nations when Freedom’s war-cry rung.
    But now, the roar of cannon, the thunder of the deep,
    The battle-shock of earthquakes, cannot wake him from his sleep!
    The foot that trod so proudly upon the earth’s green sod,
    The manly form, created in the image of its God,
    The brow, where mental greatness had set her noblest seal,
    The lip, whence thoughts were uttered like shafts of polished steel,--
    All, all of these shall moulder back to their parent earth,
    Back to the silent bosom from whence they sprang to birth!
    The _man_,--the _living Webster_--passed with a fleeting breath!
    Alas, for _human_ greatness!--the end thereof is death!
    O! what is earthly glory? Ask Cæsar, when he fell
    At the base of Pompey’s statue, slain by those he loved too well;
    Ask the Carthaginian hero, who kept his fearful vow;
    Ask Napoleon in his exile; ask the dead before ye now;--
    And one answer, and one only, in the light of truth is given:
    “Man’s highest earthly glory is to do the will of Heaven;
    To rise and battle bravely, with dauntless moral might,
    In the holy cause of Freedom, and the triumph of the Right!”
    For by this simple standard shall all at last be tried,
    And not by earthly glory, or works of human pride.

    O Webster! thou wast mighty among thy fellow-men;
    And he who seeks to judge thee must be what thou hast been;--
    Must feel thine aspirations for higher aims in life,
    And know the stern temptations that urged thee in the strife;
    Must let his heart flow largely from out its narrow span,
    And meet thee freely, fairly, as man should meet with man.
    What was lost, and what resisted, is known to One alone:
    Then let him who stands here guiltless “be first to cast a stone”!

    Farewell! We give, with mourning, back to thy mother Earth
    The robes thy soul rejected at its celestial birth!

    A mightier one and stronger may stand where thou wast tried,
    Yet he shall be the wiser that thou hast lived and died;
    Thy greatness be his glory, thine errors let him shun,
    And let him finish nobly what thou hast left undone.

    Farewell! The granite mountains, the hill-side, and the sea,
    Thy harvest-fields and orchards, will all lament for thee!
    Farewell! A mighty nation awards thee deathless fame,
    And future generations shall honor WEBSTER’S name!


“He is a strong, proud man, such as a woman might, with pride, call her
partner--‘if only--O! if he would but understand her nature, and allow
it to be worth something.’”--_See Miss Bremer’s “Brothers and Sisters.”_

    She stood beneath the moonlight pale,
      With calm, uplifted eye,
    While all her being, weak and frail,
      Thrilled with her purpose high;
    For she, the long affianced bride,
      Must seal the fount of tears,
    And break, with woman’s lofty pride,
      The plighted faith of years.

    Ay! she had loved as in a dream,
      And woke, at length, to find
    How coldly on her spirit gleamed
      The dazzling light of mind.
    For little was the true, deep love
      Of that pure spirit known
    To him, the cold, the selfish one,
      Who claimed her as his own.

    And what to him were all her dreams
      Of purer, holier life?
    Such idle fancies ill became
      A meek, submissive wife.
    And what were all her yearnings high
      For God and “Fatherland”
    But vain chimeras, lofty flights,
      While Sigurd held her hand?

    And then uprose the bitter thought,
      “Why bow to his control?
    Why sacrifice, before his pride,
      The freedom of my soul?
    Better to break the golden chain,
      And live and love apart,
    Than feel the galling, grinding links
      Wearing upon my heart.”

    He came,--and, with a soft, low voice,
      In the pale gleaming light,
    She laid her gentle hand in his--
      “Sigurd, we part to-night.
    Long have these bitter words been kept
      Within this heart of mine,
    And often have I lonely wept,--
      I never can be thine.”

    Proudly, with folded arms he stood,
      And cold, sarcastic smile--
    “Ha! this is but a wayward mood,
      An artful woman’s wile.
    But this I know: so long--so long
      I’ve held thee to thy vow,
    That I have made the bond too strong
      For thee to break it now.”

    “You know me not;--my lofty pride
      Was hidden from your eyes;
    But you have crushed it down so low
      It gives me strength to rise.
    O! all my bitter, burning thoughts
      I may not, dare not tell!
    Sigurd, my loved--_forever_ loved!
      Farewell! once more, farewell!”

    One moment, and those loving arms
      Were gently round him thrown;
    One moment, and those quivering lips
      Pressed lightly to his own:
    And then he stood alone! _alone!_
      With eyes too proud for tears;
    Yet o’er his stern, cold heart was thrown
      The burning blight of years.

    O man! so God-like in thy strength,
      Preëminent in mind,
    Seek not with these high gifts alone,
      A woman’s heart to bind.
    For, timid as a shrinking fawn,
      Yet faithful as a dove,
    She clings through life and death to thee,
      Won by thine _earnest love_.


“And beautiful now stood they there, man and woman; no longer pale; eye
to eye, hand to hand, as equals,--as partners in the light of
heaven.”--_See Miss Bremer’s “Brothers and Sisters.”_

    “O, early love! O, early love!
      Why does this memory haunt me yet?
    Peace! I invoke thee from above,--
      I cannot, though I would, forget.
    How I have sought, with prayers and tears,
      To quench this wasting passion-flame!
    But after long, long, weary years,
      It burns within my heart the same.”

    She wept--poor, sorrowing Gerda wept,
      In the dark pine-wood wandering lone,
    While cold the night-winds past her swept,
      And bright the stars above her shone.
    Poor, suffering dove! her song was hushed,
      The blithesome song of other days,
    Yet, O! when such true hearts are crushed,
      They breathe their holiest, sweetest lays.

    A step was heard. Her heart beat high;
      Through the dim shadows of the wood
    She glanced with quick and anxious eye--
      Lo! Sigurd by her stood;--
    And as the moon’s pale, quivering rays
      Stole through that lonely place,
    He stood, with calm, impassioned gaze
      Fixed on her tearful face.

    “Gerda,” he said, “I come to speak
      A long, a last farewell;
    Some distant land and home I seek,
      Far, far from thee to dwell.
    O, since I lost thee, gentle one,
      My truest and my best,
    I have rushed madly, blindly on,
      Nor dared to think of rest.

    “The night that spreads her starry wing
      Beyond the Northern Sea,
    Does not a deeper darkness bring
      Than that which rests on me.
    Yet, no! I will not ask thy tears
      For my deep tale of woe;
    Forgetfulness will come with years;
      Gerda--my love--I go!”

    “Stay! Sigurd, stay! O, why depart?
      See, at _thy feet_ I bow;
    O, cherished idol of my heart,
      Reject--reject _me_ now!”
    But not upon the cold, damp ground,
      Her bended knee she pressed;
    Upheld, and firmly clasped around,
      She wept upon his breast.

    “Reject thee? No! When earth rejects
      The sunshine’s summer glow,
    When Heaven one suppliant’s prayer neglects,
      Then will I bid _thee_ go.
    And, by the watching stars above,
      And by all things divine,
    I swear to cherish and to love
      This heart that beats to mine!”

    O, holy sense of wrongs forgot,
      And injuries forgiven!
    The human heart that feels thee not,
      Knows not the peace of Heaven.
    Ye blesséd spirits from above,
      Who guide us while we live,
    O, teach us also how to love,
      And freely to forgive.



The succeeding poems were given under direct spirit influence before
public audiences. For many of them I could not obtain the authorship,
but for such as I could, the names are given.




    O, thou holy Heaven above us!
    O, ye angel hosts who love us!
    Ye alone know how to prove us
        By the discipline of life--
    That we faint not in endeavor,
    But with cheerful courage ever
        Rise victorious in the strife.

    O, my sister! O, my brother
    I was once a mortal mother;
    One sweet blossom, and no other,
        Bloomed upon the household tree:
    Very fragile, very tender,
    Very beautiful and slender--
        He was dear as life to me.

    All the spring-time’s fresh unfolding,
    All of Art’s exquisite moulding,
    All that thrills one in beholding,
        Centred in that fair young face;
    While an angel-tempered gladness,
    Almost blending into sadness,
        Filled him with a nameless grace.

    And I loved him without measure;
    O, a ceaseless fount of pleasure
    Found I in that little treasure!
        And my heart grew good and great,
    As I thanked the God of Heaven
    That this precious one was given
        Thus to cheer my low estate.

    But, with all my prayers ascending,
    I could hear a low voice blending,
    Like some benison descending,
        Saying, “Place thy hopes above;
    For the test of all affection
    Is the full and free rejection
        Of all selfishness in love.”

    Then I felt a sad foreboding,
    All my soul to anguish goading,
    All my inward peace corroding;
        And my rebel heart begun,
    Crying wildly, that I would not
    Yield my precious one--I could not
        Say, “Thy will, not mine, be done.”

    Spring-time came with genial showers,
    Bursting buds and opening flowers,
    Singing birds and sunny hours,
        Filling heaven and earth with light.
    But the Summer--fair deceiver!--
    Came with pestilence and fever,
        Came my little bud to blight.

    O’er my threshold silent stealing,
    Chilling every sense and feeling,
    All the fount of grief unsealing,
        Came the great white angel, Death;
    And my flower upon my bosom
    Withered, like an early blossom
        Stricken by the north wind’s breath.

    And I saw him weakly lying,
    Heard his parched lips faintly sighing,
    Knew that he was dying--_dying!_
        And my love was vain to save!
    All my wild, impassioned pleading,
    All my fervent interceding,
        Could not triumph o’er the grave.

    Vainly did I crave permission,
    That my anxious, tearful vision,
    Might behold the land Elysian--
        Forth into the unknown dark,
    On that broad, mysterious river,
    Did the hand of God, the Giver,
        Launch that little, fragile bark.

    Then my brain grew wild to madness,
    Changing to a sullen sadness,
    Tempered by no ray of gladness;
        And I cursed the God above,
    That, with Heaven all full of angels,
    Sounding forth their glad evangels,
        He should take my little dove.

    Then my eyelids knew no sleeping:
    Once my midnight watch while keeping,
    I had wept beyond all weeping,--
        Suddenly there seemed to fall
    From my spiritual being,
    From my inward sense of seeing,
        Scales, as from the eyes of Paul.

    Heavenly gales were round me playing,
    Angel hands my soul were staying,
    And I heard a clear voice saying,
        “Come up hither,--come and see!
    O, thou sorrow-stricken mother!
    Unto thee, as to none other,
        Heaven unfolds her mystery.”

    God’s own Spirit seemed to move me,
    All the Heaven grew bright above me,
    All the angels seemed to love me,--
        Waved their white hands as they smiled;
    And one, fair as Summer moonlight,
    Crowned with starry gems of midnight,
        Brought to me my angel child.

    Like a flower in sunshine blowing,
    Cheeks, and lips, and eyes were glowing,--
    I could see that he was growing
        Fairer than the things of earth.
    “Thou mayst take him,” said the spirit,
    “Back to earth, there to inherit
        All the woes of mortal birth.”

    I had need of no advising;
    In divinest strength arising,
    All my selfishness despising,--
        “Nay!” I cried; “now first I know
    What it is to be a mother,
    To give being to another
        Living soul, for joy or woe.

    “Keep him in these heavenly places,
    Fold him in your pure embraces,
    Teach him the divinest graces:
        I return to earth again;
    Not to sit and weep supinely,
    But to live and love divinely.”
        And the angels said, “Amen!”

    O thou holy Heaven above us!
    O ye angel hosts who love us!
    Ye alone know how to prove us,
        By the discipline of life,--
    That we faint not in endeavor,
    But with cheerful courage ever
        Rise victorious in the strife.


    God of the Granite and the Rose!
      Soul of the Sparrow and the Bee!
    The mighty tide of Being flows
      Through countless channels, Lord, from thee.
    It leaps to life in grass and flowers,
      Through every grade of being runs,
    Till from Creation’s radiant towers
      Its glory flames in stars and suns.

    O, ye who sit and gaze on life
      With folded hands and fettered will,
    Who only see, amid the strife,
      The dark supremacy of ill,--
    Know, that like birds, and streams, and flowers,
      The life that moves you is divine!
    Nor time, nor space, nor human powers,
      Your Godlike spirit can confine.

    Once, in a form of human mould,
      Upon this earthly plane I trod;
    My faith was weak, my heart was cold,--
      I had no hope, I knew not God.
    Deep from my being’s cup I quaffed,
      With Life’s Elixir brimming o’er,
    And madly sought to drain the draught,
      That I might die, to live no more!

    There came an angel to my side--
      Not from the bowers of Paradise--
    She was mine own, mine earthly bride,
      With Heaven’s pure sunshine in her eyes.
    She wept and prayed, she knew not why--
      Her Faith, not Reason, soared above:
    She talked of God and Heaven--and I--
      Well--I was happy in _her_ love.

    Love was my all, my guiding star,
      And like a wanderer in the night,
    I hailed its radiance from afar,
      Because it shone with _certain_ light;
    But all those visions, bright and high,
      Which the pure-hearted only see,
    Of God and Immortality,
      Could not reveal their light to me.

    At length my precious one, my wife,
      Held on her bosom’s sacred shrine
    A tender form,--an infant life,--
      The union of her soul and mine.
    O God! above that precious child
      First did I breathe thy holy name,
    While strong emotions, deep and wild,
      Shook like a reed my manly frame.

    I prayed for Heaven’s eternal years;
      I prayed for light, that I might see;
    And even with stern manhood’s tears,
      I prayed for faith, O God, in Thee.
    O, this poor world seemed far too small
      To hold the measure of my love!
    They were my God, my Heaven, my All--
      My precious wife, my nestling dove.

    Ay, then there came a fearful day,
      A day of sorrow and of pain,
    When, like a helpless child, I lay,
      And fever burned in every vein.
    Weeks came and went, they went and came,
      Till Faith was Fear, and Hope had died,
    And I could only breathe the name
      Of the lone watcher at my side.

    With patient love that could not fail,
      And anxious care that knew no rest,
    She sat, like a Madonna, pale,
      With our sweet infant on her breast.
    For _them_ I beat Life’s stormy wave,
      And struggled, face to face, with death;
    For _them_ I tarried from the grave,
      And firmly held my mortal breath.

    But faint and weak at length I lay,
      While darkness gathered over all--
    I felt my pulses fluttering play
      Like Autumn leaves about to fall.
    My poor, tired heart could do no more,
      But yielded the unequal strife;
    Ay, then I prayed, as ne’er before,
      That I might have Eternal Life.

    O God! my sainted mother’s face
      Gleamed through the deepening shades of death,
    And from her lips these words of grace
      Fell gently as the evening’s breath:
    “Child of my love, I gave to earth
      Thy mortal form in grief and pain--
    Lo! now, in this, thy second birth,
      I lend my strength to thee again.”

    That angel-presence stood revealed,
      To her who sat beside my bed;
    Our quivering lips Love’s compact sealed,
      And one, brief, parting word was said.
    Then, leaning like a weary child
      My head upon my mother’s breast,
    She bore me, changed and reconciled,
      To the fair dwellings of the blest.

    But oft at morn, or close of day,
      I feel the love that toward me yearns,
    And earthward, o’er the starry way,
      My answering spirit gladly turns.
    O Death! O Grave! before Heaven’s light
      Thy gloomy phantoms quickly fly;
    And man shall learn _this_ truth aright--
      That he must _change_, but shall not _die_!

    Shall change, as doth the summer rose,
      The evening light, the closing year;
    Shall sink into a sweet repose,
      To waken in a happier sphere;--
    Shall fall, as falls the harvest grain--
      The ripened ears of golden corn,
    Which yields its life, that yet again,
      Through ceaseless change, it be re-born.

    God of the Granite and the Rose!
      Soul of the Sparrow and the Bee!
    The mighty tide of Being flows
      Through all thy creatures back to Thee.
    Thus round and round the circle runs--
      A mighty sea without a shore--
    While men and angels, stars and suns,
      Unite to praise Thee evermore!


[A poem delivered at the funeral service of Mr. Henry L. Kingman, of
North Bridgewater, Mass., November, 1862.]

    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?

    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.

    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?

    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!

    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.

    “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.

    “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.”

    Blest spirit! we will weep no more,
      But lay our selfishness to rest;
    The Providence, which we adore,
      Has ordered all things for the best.
    Life’s battle fought, the victory won,
    To nobler toils pass on! pass on!


    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.

    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.

    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!

    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!

    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?

    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!

    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!

    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!

    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.

    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.

    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.

    “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.”

    Then out of my cursing and madness,
      And out of the furnace of flame,
    My soul, like a jewel of beauty,
      Annealed through life’s processes came.
    The forms of my loved ones were near me,
      The night of my sorrow had passed;
    God grant you, O mortals, who judged me,
      As full an acceptance at last!


    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!


    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!

    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 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!

    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 Eagle of Freedom, sublime in his flight,
    Shall rest on your banner, encircled with light;
    And then shall the chorus, in unison be,
    Three cheers for the Eagle, the Bird of the Free!
                Hurrah! Hurrah!
    Hurrah for the Eagle, the Bird of the Free!



    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!

    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!

    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!

    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?

    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.

    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.

    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.


[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.”

    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.

    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.

    “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.

    “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.”

    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.

    “They shall walk in Faith’s clear sunshine,
      With souls renewed in youth,
    And the little child shall lead them
      To a knowledge of the truth.
    Tell them the loving angels
      Watch o’er their darling boy--
    They are sharers of their sorrow,
      And helpers of their joy.”


[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

    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.

    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.”

    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!

    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!”

    Check, then, the falling tear;
    Think of me still as near.
    Father and mother dear,
      Soon on that shore,
    Where all the loved ones meet,
    Resting your pilgrim feet,
    Shall you with blessings greet
      “Birdie” once more.


“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.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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.


[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.

    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!

    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;--

    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;--

    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;--

    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;--

    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!

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    Thus by that world of beauty,
      And by that life of love,
    And by the holy angels
      Who listen now above,
    I pledge my soul’s endeavor,
      To do whate’er I can
    To bless my sister woman,
      And aid my brother man.

    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.

[The two following poems were given under an influence purporting to be
that of Shakspeare.]


      “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.

      “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.

      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.

      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.

      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, 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.

      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.

      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.



    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.


[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.

    The weary slave that drags his chain,
      In toil and grief, and a’ that,
    Shall find relief from a’ his pain,
      And rest in Heaven from a’ that.
        From a’ that and a’ that.
      There’s freedom there from a’ that,
    For Justice throws into the scale
      A recompense 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.


[Given under the inspiration of Robert Burns.]

        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.


“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.


[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!’”


[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.”


[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?


“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._

    Woman weak, and woman mortal,
    Through thy spirit’s open portal,
      I would read the Runic record
        Of mine earthly being o’er--
    I would feel that fire returning,
    Which within my soul was burning,
      When my star was quenched in darkness,
        Set, to rise on earth no more,
      When I sank beneath life’s burden
        In the streets of Baltimore!

    O, those memories, sore and saddening!
    O, that night of anguish maddening!
      When my lone heart suffered shipwreck
        On a demon-haunted shore--
    When the fiends grew wild with laughter,
    And the silence following after,
      Was more awful and appalling
        Than the cannons deadly roar--
      Than the tramp of mighty armies
        Through the streets of Baltimore!

    Like a fiery serpent coiling,
    Like a Maelstrom madly boiling,
      Did this Phlegethon of fury
        Sweep my shuddering spirit o’er!
    Rushing onward, blindly reeling,
    Tortured by intensest feeling--
      Like Prometheus, when the vultures
        Through his quivering vitals tore--
      Swift I fled from death and darkness,
        Through the streets of Baltimore!

    No one near to save or love me!
    No kind face to watch above me!
      Though I heard the sound of footsteps,
        Like the waves upon the shore,
    Beating, beating, beating, beating!
    Now advancing, now retreating--
      With a dull and dreamy rhythm--
        With a long, continuous roar--
      Heard the sound of human footsteps,
        In the streets of Baltimore!

    There at length they found me lying,
    Weak and ’wildered, sick and dying,
      And my shattered wreck of being
        To a kindly refuge bore!
    But my woe was past enduring,
    And my soul cast off its mooring,
      Crying, as I floated outward,
        “I am of the earth no more!
      I have forfeited life’s blessing
        In the streets of Baltimore!”

    Where wast thou, O Power Eternal!
    When the fiery fiend, infernal,
      Beat me with his burning fasces,
        Till I sank to rise no more?
    O, was all my life-long error
    Crowded in that night of terror?
      Did my sin find expiation,
        Which to judgment went before,
      Summoned to a dread tribunal,
        In the streets of Baltimore?

    Nay, with deep, delirious pleasure,
    I had drained my life’s full measure,
      Till the fatal, fiery serpent,
        Fed upon my being’s core!
    Then with force and fire volcanic,
    Summoning a strength Titanic,
      Did I burst the bonds that bound me--
        Battered down my being’s door;
      Fled, and left my shattered dwelling
        To the dust of Baltimore!

    Gazing back without lamenting,
    With no sorrowful repenting,
      I can read my life’s sad story
        In a light unknown before!
    For there is no woe so dismal,
    Not an evil so abysmal,
      But a rainbow arch of glory
        Spans the yawning chasm o’er!
      And across that Bridge of Beauty
        Did I pass from Baltimore!

    In that grand, Eternal City,
    Where the angel-hearts take pity
      On the sin which men forgive not,
        Or inactively deplore,
    Earth has lost the power to harm me!
    Death can never more alarm me,
      And I drink fresh inspiration
        From the Source which I adore--
      Through my Spirit’s apothéosis--
        That new birth in Baltimore!

    Now no longer sadly yearning yearning--
    Love for love finds sweet returning--
      And there comes no ghostly raven,
        Tapping at my chamber door!
    Calmly, in the golden glory,
    I can sit and read life’s story,
      For my soul from out that shadow
        Hath been lifted evermore--
      From that deep and dismal shadow,
        In the streets of Baltimore!

[As the following lecture is, in a certain sense, an introduction to
Poe’s “Farewell to Earth,” it has been considered advisable to publish
it in connection with the poem.]


M., NOV. 2, 1863.

[Phonographically reported by Robert S. Moore.]

For several reasons, we must be as brief and comprehensive as possible
in our remarks to-night. We do not intend to make any great intellectual
effort, or to endeavor to astonish you with lofty strains of eloquence.
We simply desire to present to you a few facts in connection with the
poem about to be given, and we do this under the distinctive title of

As Godliness was a mystery in the past, so is it in the present. And why
is it a mystery? Because men understand so little of the _practice_ of
Godliness. Socrates was accustomed to say that “a man was always
sufficiently eloquent in that which he clearly understood;” and thus a
man will not look upon that as a mystery which is a part of his daily
life, and with which he has become familiar through experience. But as
it was in the days when Jesus lived and taught, or when Paul wrote his
Epistle to Timothy, so Godliness, to the great mass of minds, remains a
mystery. When Paul penned those words,--“Without controversy, great is
the mystery of Godliness: God was manifest in the flesh, justified in
the spirit, seen of angels, preached unto the Gentiles, believed on in
the world, and received up into glory,”--he referred particularly to the
life and teachings of Jesus. We, however, give to the passage a more
comprehensive and extended application. If the “Mystery of Godliness”
was made manifest in the life of Jesus because of his divinity, then do
we say to the men of the present day, “Beloved, now are ye also sons of
God.” And if “the Word was made flesh, and dwelt in the midst of men,”
in the person of Jesus of Nazareth, so that same Word is incarnated, in
greater or less degree, in every human being, be he rich or poor, black
or white, bond or free. In the same way, also, every one possessing a
living soul is a manifestation of the mystery of Godliness. And when a
man goes into his own nature, when he understands himself, when he reads
the mysteries of his own being, when he looks away from his positive and
earthly necessities up to his Divine possibilities, and sees how vast is
the range, how infinite his capabilities, then he begins to understand
something of the mysteries of Godliness. The Church has used this
phraseology in the past, and knew not what it meant. She had “the form
of Godliness,” and yet in word and deed, ay, in very thought, she
“denied the power thereof.” Therefore it has been, in all past time,
when there were some true and sincere souls in the Church, who made
manifest, both by profession and practice, that in part at least, they
comprehended the mystery of Godliness, which is the highest
spirituality,--not Spiritualism,--and let it flow out into the beauty
and harmony of perfect lives, the Church looked at them with a doubtful
countenance. There was such a thing as being too holy, and the Church
felt that such lives were a reproach to her self-righteousness and
hypocrisy. She was not familiar with the manifestation of true
Godliness, and consequently looked upon it as something that threatened
her internal peace, and the success of her stereotyped plan of
salvation. Therefore it was, that the voice of condemnation was raised
against Michael De Molinos, Fenelon, Madame Guyon, and the whole host of
Quietists and Reformers. By dim forecastings of the soul, and heroic
struggling with flesh and sense, they had learned something of that holy
mystery. It was that which could not be translated into human language.
It could not be written in books, but it was that which was to be felt
in the soul, and made manifest in the life. Godliness, true
spirituality, cannot find expression in words, and so it must of
necessity manifest its Divine beauty in the life.

But what is the idea we intend to convey when we use the term
“Godliness”? Who is God, from whose name this word is simply a
derivative? Godliness is the manifestation of his spirit and power in
the soul of man, yet it is not God. Who, then, is He! We must look into
the lexicon of every human heart to find our reply; for each one
worships his own Ideal of Deity according to the revelation of Truth
which he receives, and to the capacity of his spirit to comprehend. The
old philosophers sought for God in all the external world; they also
went down into the mysteries of the spirit, as far as philosophy could
sound its mighty depths, and yet they could not fathom his infinite
nature. Although form and an external are necessary to man as a
completion of his idea, yet when he reasons deeply concerning Deity, he
cannot arrive at any satisfactory conclusions concerning his
personality; he can only worship him as a principle, as a presence, and
a power. Man, in his insignificance, can only look up to that superior
Intelligence, which manifests itself throughout Nature, and worship
either in the silence of the heart or in the inadequate articulations of
human speech. The finite never did as yet compass and comprehend the
Infinite. And before that majestic question which all the Ages have
sought in vain to answer, before that mighty Oracle whose essence and
nature have never been understood, man might as well remain dumb.

But where, you ask, shall man find his highest manifestation of Deity?
How shall he know and understand God, so that he may attain unto the
true mystery of Godliness? The most of God that you can know is through
your own souls. Your neighbor may speak unto you of the influences which
flow in upon him from the great Soul of all; you can only listen, but
cannot comprehend, unless there is something of the same spirit--of the
same Divine life within you. But as you grow in goodness and
spirituality, you comprehend more clearly the truth which Jesus, the
greatest Medium the world ever knew, spoke to the ears of men, when he
said, “God is a Spirit, and they that worship him must worship him in
spirit and in truth.” Therefore our definition of Godliness is
spirituality, the influence of God felt in the soul and made manifest in
the life of man. Just in proportion as this principle or power is
realized in the hearts of men, they approach nearer unto Deity; they see
more of his perfect life; they understand more of his ways; they leave
speculations concerning his personality, and go away to those great
generalizations whereby a man’s soul grows comprehensive and universal
in its sympathies, and beholds the operations of the Infinite mind in
all things. Thus, as Jesus was a manifestation of that Godliness or
spirituality, the self-same Divine power--the “Divine in the human” is
manifest in every sentient being.

And here we approach a mighty truth, in whose majestic presence we feel
inclined to lay aside our dusty sandals; for the place whereon we stand
seems holy ground. While studying the mysteries of our own being, we
find that necessarily we worship Everlasting Truth, in whatever form it
may be presented. We go away from limitations, we go away from sects and
creeds, from tottering institutions and the musty theologies of the
past, and stand face to face with that fresher revelation of Deity in
the heart. Then it is that man feels there are primary and fundamental
truths lying at the basis of all philosophy and all religion, and only
as he builds upon these broad foundations can he rear a glorious
superstructure against which all the winds of changing theories, and the
descending floods of mere speculative philosophy, will not be able to
prevail. As man, like one initiated into the mysteries of Masonry,
enters into this lodge of freedom, he begins to believe in himself. No
man can have faith in God who has no faith in himself; that is the first
step towards the Divine. You take that step in the secret of the soul
when you first acknowledge the “Divine in the human,” and confess its
supporting influence.

For instance, two men may be standing on the borders of a precipice:
below, there is the deep ravine; opposite, the other side of the
mountain. They look far down and see rough, ragged points of rocks, and
far, far below, the floods boiling white with foam. Over this abyss
there is but one slight, frail bridge, and that is the trunk of a single
tree. One man says, “Since we must pass over, I will precede. I know
that I can go; I _will_ go.” That man has faith in himself. He plants
his feet firmly; he looks upward, and passes safely over. The second
says, “I do not believe that I can go; I fear I shall fall.” He totters
on, trembling, until he reaches the middle, and then cries out, “O Lord,
Lord, help me!” So surely as he utters that cry, faithless in his own
power, that man must fall.

And thus it is with human souls. They are standing here, in earthly
life, gazing across the great abyss of the Future. It is dark and
terrible below. They cannot clearly understand what fate awaits them,
but they see the strait and narrow way before them. If a man plants his
feet firmly, and says, “I can, and I will,” it is the greatest possible
acknowledgement of his faith in God. That man has stepped upon the
threshold of the mysteries of Godliness; those mysteries will be made
clearer and more apparent to his soul as he advances. But if, with
craven soul, he says, “I know not what to do. I will wait for God’s
providences, and let them come as they may; for of myself I can do
nothing,”--if he trust to the vicarious atonement and an external Deity,
and does nothing for his own salvation,--if, in making oral prayers to
the Lord of the Universe, he forgets to “worship God in spirit,” and
loses the vitalizing consciousness of the Divine within his own being,
that man will assuredly err; he will continually go astray, for
externally he has “the form of Godliness,” but practically and
internally he denies “the power thereof.”

The world to-day is standing, in a certain sense, in that same position.
Men are lifting up their hands, and crying, “Lord, Lord!” believing that
they shall thus enter into the kingdom, while within their own beings
there is a broad region of spiritual mysteries unknown and unexplored.
Here and there are instances where souls, driven by the action of their
own importunate reason,--ay, we may say, by simple common sense,--have
turned aside from creeds and theories, and have inquired earnestly of
Nature and of the God within. It is refreshing at times to find such a
soul: one that believes in the inspiration of the living Word,
incarnated in all flesh, and made apparent throughout the universe,--not
a Pantheist, believing in the manifestation of Deity in Nature alone,
and in nothing higher, but realizing that the creation is the
perceptible and external revelation of Deity; believing, with the German
philosopher Fichte, that “there is a Divine Idea pervading this 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.” He who lives and dwells in this Idea,
enters into the mysteries of Godliness. All divine things are
exceedingly simple when they are known. It is because men are looking
too high that they do not receive the living inspirations of the Truth;
they turn away from themselves, and neglect to observe the manifestation
of the spirit within their own being. They look upon their brother man
or sister woman, and forget to exercise that broad charity which sees
the spirit struggling with the flesh, or feebly breasting the wild waves
of a tempestuous life, simply because it was thus constituted and
surrounded. Men commonly judge from their own individual stand-point,
instead of going away back to the Divinity of the inner life, and from
its pure eyes looking into the heart of their erring brother or sister.
He who simply criticizes the man, and judges him by the limitations of
his own life, errs greatly. But he who looks beyond and behind him, sees
that there are truths, and principles, and powers, and loving, earnest
spirits, who are endeavoring to make manifest their inspiration through
him; and although he may be changeable in his nature, although he may be
erratic and wandering, it is only through the excess of power that
cannot find an appropriate manifestation through such an organization.

And such a one was he of whom we speak to-night,--that erratic genius,
EDGAR A. POE. The mysteries of Godliness,--not of morality, as the world
understands it,--confounded him. He could see more clearly than most of
men. He looked out into the vast arcana of Nature, and his soul trembled
before the majestic revelation. He knew not how to express, in any
adequate form of speech, those great and mighty thoughts which rose and
shone, like stars of wondrous beauty, in his soul; he knew not how to
give his burning inspirations a manifestation through his life and

Edgar A. Poe was a medium. “A medium!” you say. “He himself would scorn
the name; and we, who knew him, deny it.” But of what was he a medium?
We do not confine ourselves to that definition of the term given by
modern Spiritualists. He was a medium for the general inspiration which
sets like a current of living fire through the universe. No special, no
individual spirit wrought directly upon him, but he felt the might and
majesty of occult forces from the world of causes, and trembled beneath
their influence. He was a medium, not to disembodied spirits, only so
far as mind acts upon mind by the great law of unity, and in the same
way was he psychologically affected by spirits in the body. He had a
peculiarly sensitive and impressible nature, and in the mysteries of a
spirituality which he did not seek to comprehend, he was easily wrought
upon by the minds around him. Not but what he possessed self-will; not,
indeed, that he lacked that firmness, whereby, when his soul was
aroused, he could repel such influences. But his nature was so finely
strung that every harsh word, every unkindly discord, grated and
thrilled through his entire being, so that oftentimes it would seem as
though he would beat down the wall of clay to give his spirit freedom,
and to escape forever from the inharmonious influences of the
world,--from the presence of those by whom he was so little understood.

It is difficult to comprehend such natures, for they are not common.
But, alas for such! They have no choice but to be denizens of this
world, and all the rough, sharp angles of rude Humanity seem continually
to wound and irritate their sensitiveness, torturing them almost to
madness. And yet there is a deep, strong under-current to their lives.
There is a beautiful spirituality which leads men to perceive that there
is a power in the universe which balances all these inequalities and
apparent inharmonies of human beings; and so, although they are set at
variance with the world in certain portions of their nature, yet they
are rewarded in others. Edgar A. Poe possessed the power of retiring
from external things into the mysteries of the spirit. The greatest
authors and musical composers the world ever knew, were those whose
favorite pursuit so completely absorbed them that all external things
were excluded, and they forgot, while their inspirations were upon them,
what manner of men they were,--forgot the necessities of the flesh, and
all the surroundings of their daily lives. Such men could understand our
meaning, when we say that Edgar A. Poe lived much in his inner life, and
there, as in the experience of the soul-rapt and inspired Boehmen,
glorious revelations of the sublime and the beautiful were made manifest
unto him. The common forms of human speech were inadequate for
expression; therefore he seized upon the secret harmony of words, and
strung them like flashing gems on the golden line of his thought,
weaving them into wild, strange metaphors, oftentimes so bewildering and
dazzling, that the common mind could only feel the charm without
comprehending the mystery. Like Ezekiel in his vision, he beheld the
wondrous “living creatures, and the wheels,” and as they were
represented, so did he describe them; but the mind of the reader must be
in a similar state of illumination in order to clearly understand his
meaning. There were seasons when he seemed to enter into a peaceful
alliance with earth and all harmonious and beautiful things. Yet when
his peculiarly sensitive nature was startled and aroused, he turned back
to this Valhalla of his soul, and there he found another element of
peace,--a strange, paradoxical peace, which comes through the herculean
efforts of the soul to clamber up the rugged heights of destiny,--such
peace as is given unto souls, when the angel, with a flaming sword,
drives them from the Eden places of this world back into the mysteries
of their being, in order that from their bloody sweat and bitter agony
they may wring out great songs of moving inspiration, and reveal to
mankind generally the wondrous world of ideas and causes which lies
beyond the limits of sense and the range of external observation.

All such are men of Destiny. They are compelled over the ways which they
tread. The world looks upon them, and cannot understand them; men
consider them as anomalies and strange inconsistencies; as abnormal
manifestations of the spirit. Yet “for this cause came they into the
world;” and as poets, and artists, and musical composers are born with
the undeveloped elements of their genius within them, so particular
souls, in close connection with the spiritual world, who are continually
receiving direct impressions and revelations from the sphere of causes,
are born such from their cradle; and thus the mystery of spirituality or
godliness, as the world passes on generation after generation, is
becoming more and more apparent in the lives and experiences of men.
When we speak of spirituality, do not consider that we mean modern
Spiritualism, as understood by the world, which has furnished any amount
of sheep’s clothing to the wolves who desire to prey upon the lambs in
the unguarded fold of Humanity. Neither do we mean that inflated
spirituality, which, in its zeal for reform, and contempt for ceremonies
and limitations, rushes to extremes, and, deceiving itself, “uses its
liberty as an occasion to the flesh.” But we do mean that living
principle, which makes itself manifest in high-toned souls, whose
sublime aspirations exalt the whole life above the common level of
Humanity. It may come out as a fitful and glimmering light, but it shows
that the Divine inspiration is there, and all men, when they perceive
it, are ready to acknowledge it as genuine. Whatever is truly good,
glorious, or divine, that which possesses in itself real merit and
inspiration, cannot fail to find a responsive echo. And thus was it with
the writings of Poe. When, from the glowing fire-crypts of his soul, he
wrought out, with master strokes, his “Raven,” and gave it to the world,
men felt that there was the ring of true genius. And, although it was
the utterance of a nature at variance with its earthy surroundings, and
tortured by its own sensibility, yet because of its gloomy grandeur and
euphonious rhythm, the poem could not fail to be appreciated.

Such natures cannot live long in the flesh. They are like two-edged
swords, which wear upon the scabbard. There is ever an unseen hand upon
the hilt, and finally, when the word of command is given, the sword is
drawn, and becomes a most effective instrument in the hand of
Everlasting Truth; then the individual nature that has so long battled
the stormy elements of mortal life first perceives its advantages, and
in the triumphant exultation which spirits always feel when freed from
the fetters of mortality, it exclaims, “O Death! where is thy sting? O
Grave! where is thy victory?” That diviner spirituality which was
obscured by the flesh, which was crushed down by earthly circumstances,
at length frees itself, and starts up in all its majesty and glory. But
the mysterious growth and development of the spirit does not end here.

Perhaps in this connection we may present to you certain points from
which you will feel obliged to dissent. They may seem like vague
theories and wild speculations, yet they are truths which you are yet to
realize in your eternal experience,--truths which this one of whom we
speak will present to you in repetition to-night.

There is a power in man which is closely connected with the things of
external life, and draws inspiration from nature and the associations of
his fellow-men. There is a power, also, in every human being superior to
the spirit, and that is the soul, or innermost life--which is a divine
and indestructible principle. When, therefore, the garment of flesh is
laid aside,--when the mortal puts on its immortality,--the spirit goes
forth precisely as it is. If it has been under the influence of
ungoverned passion; if it has striven, through mad ambition, to attain
to some cherished ideal, still does it feel that impetus, and its
earthly longings and aspirations must pass away through a gradual
transformation. You may dissent from this, but the change of the earthly
garment does not effect a radical change in the spirit. And thus, as the
spirit of Edgar A. Poe started forth on its celestial journey, all that
bound him to earth still held a certain degree of influence over him.
“Life is one eternal progress,” and only by progression and the gradual
development of his nobler nature could he outlive that bondage. In many
respects he had loved life and the things of earth. In his intercourse
with men he could not free himself from “the sins which did so easily
beset him.” Neither could he restrain that sensitiveness and
irritability of nature which so often destroyed the peace of his outer
and inner life, and therefore he must necessarily outgrow that in higher
conditions, and under more favorable influences. As he gradually
attained to a sublimer consciousness of the beautiful and true, much of
the wild and fitful fire peculiar to his genius departed from him, and
there came in its stead a majestic flow of inspiration, solemn and grand
as the music of the spheres. He saw that there were harmonious relations
awaiting him; and as his soul was rich in sympathy and love, he aspired
to those conditions, and he could not rest until he had attained unto
them. The hinderance to his perfect peace was in his own spirit, and he
realized it. It was for him the commencement of a mighty struggle,--

    “When the golden bowl,--life’s token,--
     Into shining shards was broken.”

It would seem, then, as though conscious of his strength, he stood up
like a spiritual giant, exclaiming, “I am free! At last I am free!”
There was a complete expansion of his being as he drank in the celestial
air. He could not clearly understand the mysteries by which he was
surrounded, but he knew that there was a latent energy in his soul,
which, being more fully developed, would wrestle with these mighty
problems until he made the solution his own. As year after year, marking
great and important changes in human experience, rolled on, men who
remembered Poe as he was, said, “Now he rests from life’s labor; now he
sins and sorrows no more.”

But they did not know upon what a mighty battle-field he stood, neither
could they understand through what fires of purification he was passing.
But there he stood, contending bravely, not once losing faith in his
soul’s possibilities, and pressing earnestly forward to the desired
consummation. And in this he was not alone. O, no! There was with him a
whole host of moral heroes, who, conscious of their power to win the
victory, and quickened by the inspirations which they received from that
higher state of being, were striving, by the excelsior movement of the
soul, to attain to those glory-encircled heights from whence they could
look calmly down upon the plane of their earthly existence.

Thus it was that, as they gradually arose higher and higher in the scale
of being, he and they could perceive that all sin, and sorrow, and evil
ended at length in blessing, and that truths, which were dim and
indistinct, which seemed aught but truths, came out into clear and
shining light, and in their heavens were stars of the first magnitude.
Thus, also, as he toiled on he became versed in the mysteries of the
spirit, not in mere moralities--for true religion, godliness or
spirituality, is the full, free, and complete development of man’s
entire being, both in the intellectual and moral. Science and
literature, art and religion, have been separated by mankind, because
they did not understand the true mystery of Godliness.

But in that higher life one of the first lessons taught to the soul is,
that all things have their uses. Even the low, animal passions, leading
man into error, into sin, sensuality, and evil, will thereby teach him
lessons of wisdom; will teach him to avoid the false and the untrue, and
also that there were rocks and quicksands upon which his bark had
almost foundered, and which in the future he must avoid. Whether it be
these lower passions, or the intellectual and moral, still each must
have its own appropriate manifestation.

And as all these capacities for growth and perception belong not to the
body but to the spirit, so the spirit, sweeping away into the great
Eternity, bears up all these powers of its wondrous mechanism with it,
and the vision of Ezekiel is realized; for “the living creature being
lifted up, the wheels are lifted up also.”

Each organ of the brain has its own magnetic circle, touching the one
upon another like the mechanism of a watch, and all governed by the
main-spring, which is the internal consciousness of man, the central
power of his being. This order in the change from the mortal to the
immortal is not lost, but finds a more harmonious surrounding. Thus,
when the spirit has ascended, with its increased power, with its
superior opportunities for observation and investigation of all the
truths of the universe, it learns this most important truth,--that not
in _one_ direction, but in _all_, the spirit shall find its most free
and perfect development.

Thus having become familiar with the conditions of the higher life, the
one of whom we speak realized that it was not in the poetic element of
his being alone that he was to find inspiration, not in smooth flowing
numbers or cunning arrangements of human speech, but in the grand
harmony of the living whole--the perfect accord of his entire being. It
was necessary, in passing forth from the flesh, that he should learn
this simple lesson. He has endeavored by all the powers of his nature to
make its application; and he has succeeded. This night he gives his
“Farewell to Earth.” Not that he is to be divided forever in his
interest from Humanity, but, no longer incited by restlessness or
ambition, to express in rhythmic numbers the fiery thought within, no
longer drawn by the sordid interests of this earthly life, he can gaze
down upon this lower world and influence the minds of men, and still be
above them. He can still minister, as an Everlasting Truth and living
power, to the needs of Humanity; but as Poe, the individual, he is
willing to be forgotten. His personality, as far as human recognition is
concerned, can end here. He cares not that “this poor, paltry _me_
should be spun out into Infinity.” He says: “Let my soul speak, which
is the Divine Power. I have realized in myself the mysteries of
Godliness, and know now that I too am Divine. I have merged and lost my
will in the Great Will of the universe. I know now what heaven is; it is
beauty, perfection, harmony. I would live forever in that celestial air,
and draw in the vitalizing influences of truth. I do not desire to go
down to the lowly homes of earth, nor to mingle with men in their
contentions and selfish interests. I know that there is a Power guarding
and guiding all things, and I can trust those whom I have loved, or
those for whom I have cared, in that Almighty Hand. Whatever mysterious
manifestation of wisdom on the part of Divine Providence comes to
Humanity, I can say now, ‘It is well! Let the will of that Power be
done!’ I have then no work to perform for you. I have only to carry with
me through the vast Eternity an open nature, that I may receive truths,
and, in passing onward, transmit them to those who are to follow after

Thus it is with all great and earnest souls. “The mystery of Godliness,”
or true spirituality, as an impelling and inspiring power, is behind
them, making itself manifest through their being. It also stands before
them, beckoning them on the way. It may be they have natures of steel
and fire, and that a thought electric strikes upon the heart, and sits,
a mania, on the brain. But still they feel that power impelling and
persuading, and finally when they perceive that the grand current of
human events is tending towards the great ocean of Infinite Truth, they
are willing to let their own peculiarities and characteristic tendencies
also flow on in the great stream, and so harmony is at length
established, not only with themselves but all.

The lesson of Poe’s life, in itself, was worth much to Humanity. In
coming time, others besides ourselves will dissect and analyze his
peculiar nature, and present it, even as we have, to men, as an instance
of that Spirit which was “made manifest in the flesh, which was seen of
angels, was preached by inspired lips to Humanity, believed on in the
world, and received up into glory.” Great, indeed, is the mystery of
Godliness! great in the light of the human lives that come and go upon
the broad arena of earthly existence. Great, also, is that mystery as
made manifest in those spirits who go forth from the flesh, and feeling
the Divine inspiration stirring within them, seek for life,--Eternal
Life,--in order that they may grow and expand to the fulness of their
spiritual being, having within themselves a quenchless thirst for the
harmonious and the beautiful. They are true to the great law of spirit,
for whether in Time or Eternity, it may still be said that,--

    “Within the heart of man there is a constant yearning
      For something higher, holier, unattained,--
    Upward and onward, from the present turning,
      Yet resting never when a point is gained.
    Some unseen spirit evermore the soul is urging
      Through childish weakness and ambitious youth;
    And day by day all souls are still converging
      Nearer and nearer to the Central Source of Truth.
    Youth cuts a foothold in the Rock of Ages;
      The hope of Fame and Glory lures him on his way,
    And, pondering o’er the works of ancient sages,
      He catches glimpses of a brighter day.
    Alas! but toilsome is the way, and dreary,
      To him who has no high and holy aim,
    And, pausing on Life’s threshold, sad and weary,
      He casts away the laurel wreath of Fame.”[N]

Thus was it with Poe. Not clearly discerning the purposes of life, he
did not bend his efforts to one high and holy aim. His nature was
wandering and erratic. This is also _his_ present view of his earthly
life. “He has cast away his laurel wreath of fame,” and now upon his
brow, burning brightly with the glories of the celestial sphere, is an
olive wreath of peace. He stands now as a majestic soul, self-poised and
harmonious. Yet he has not lost aught of the brilliancy and fire of his

Edgar A. Poe was mighty in the flesh; and in the spirit he is mightier
far. His manifestations will yet come to mankind, but not as from the
individual. They will speak to your souls; they will breathe in words of
fire from the lips of Humanity, as inspirations from the Higher Life,
rather than as the utterances of him who was once known among men as

    “O, ever thus have Earth’s most noble-hearted
      Gone calmly upward to their place above!
    And when their footsteps from the earth departed,
      Have left their works of genius or of love.
    For Aspiration is the moral lever, raising
      The earnest spirit to its destined height;
    But Inspiration only comes from gazing
      Upon the perfect Source of Life and Light!”


[The following poem purports to be Poe’s final farewell to Earth. It was
given in the city of New York, Monday evening, Nov. 2, 1863.]


          Farewell! Farewell!
          Like the music of a bell
          Floating downward to the dell--
            Downward from some Alpine height,
            While the sunset-embers bright,
            Fade upon the hearth of night;
          So my spirit, voiceless--breathless,--
          Indestructible and deathless,
    From the heights of Life Elysian gives to Earth my parting song;
          Downward through the star-lit spaces,
          Unto Earth’s most lowly places,
    Like the sun-born strains of Memnon, let the music float along,
    With a wild and wayward rhythm, with a movement deep and strong.
    “Come up higher!” cry the angels.--This must be my parting song.

          Earth! O Earth! thou art my Mother.
          Mortal man! thou art my Brother.
    We have shared a mutual sorrow, we have known a common birth;
          Yet with all my soul’s endeavor,
          I will sunder, and forever,
    Every tie of human passion that can bind my soul to Earth--
    Every slavish tie that binds me to the things of little worth.
    “Come up higher!” cry the angels: “come! and bid farewell to Earth.”

    I would bear a love Platonic to the souls in earthly life;
    I would give a sign Masonic to the heroes in the strife;
    I have been their fellow-craftsman, bound apprentice to that Art,
    Whereby Life, that cunning draughtsman, builds his temple in the heart.
    But with Earth no longer mated, I have passed the First Degree;
    I have been initiated to the second mystery.
    O, its high and holy meaning not one soul shall fail to see!
    Now, with loftiest aspirations, onward through the worlds I march,
    Through the countless constellations, upward to the Royal Arch.
    “Come up higher!” cry the angels: “come up to the Royal Arch.”


          Farewell! Farewell!
          Like the tolling of a bell,
          Sounding forth some funeral knell,--
            Tolling with a sad refrain,
            Not for those who rest from pain,
            But for those who still remain;
          So sweet pathos would I borrow
          From the loving lips of Sorrow,
    Weaving in a plaintive minor with the cadence of my song,
          For the souls that lonely languish,
          For the hearts that break with anguish,
    For the weak ones and the tempted, who must sin and suffer long;
    For the hosts of living martyrs, groaning ’neath some ancient wrong;
    For the cowards and the cravens, who in guilt alone are strong.
          But from all Earth’s woe and sadness,
          All its folly and its madness,
    I would never strive to save you, or avert the evil blow;
          Even if I would, I could not,
          Even if I could, I would not
    Turn the course of Time’s great river, in its grand, majestic flow;
    Grapple with those mighty causes whose results I may not know:
    All Life’s sorrows end in blessing, as the future yet shall show.

    From Life’s overflowing beaker I have drained the bitter draught,
    Changing to a maddening ichor in my being as I quaffed.
    I have felt the hot blood rushing o’er its red and rameous path,
    Like the molten lava, gushing in its wild, volcanic wrath;
    Like a bubbling, boiling Geyser, in the regions of the pole;
    Like a Scylla or Charybdis, threatening to ingulf my soul.
    O, for all such fire-wrought natures let my rhythmic numbers toll!
    Vulnerable, like Achilles, only in one fatal part,
    I was wounded, by Life’s arrows, in the head, but not the heart.
    “Come up higher!” cried the angels;--and I hastened to depart.


          Farewell! farewell!
          Like a merry marriage-bell,
          Pealing with a tuneful swell,
            Telling, in a joyful strain,
            With a whispered, sweet refrain,
            Of the hearts no longer twain;
          So no longer cursed and fated,
          Fondly loved and truly mated,
    I can pour my inspirations, free as Orpheus, through my strain.
          Gifted with a sense of seeing
          Far beyond my earthly being,
    I can feel I have not suffered, loved, and hoped, and feared in vain;
    Every earthly sin and sorrow I can only count as gain:
    I can chant a grand “Te Deum” o’er the record of my pain.

          Ye who grope in darkness blindly,
          Ye who seek a refuge kindly,
    Ye upon whose hearts the ravens--ghostly ravens--perch and prey,
          Listen! for the bells are ringing,
          Tuneful as the angels singing,
    Ringing in the glorious morning of your spirit’s marriage-day,
    When the soul, no longer fettered to the feeble form of clay,
    To a high, harmonious union, soars, elate with hope away.
    Where the iris arch of Beauty bridges o’er celestial skies,
    Where the golden line of Duty, like a living pathway lies,
    Where the gonfalons of Glory float upon the fragrant air,
    Ye who read Life’s lengthening story, find a Royal Chapter there.
    Ye shall see how men and nations o’er the ways of life advance;
    Ye shall watch the constellations in their mazy, mystic dance;
    And the Central Sun shall greet you--greet you with a golden glance.
    O, for souls in Life Eternal let the bells in gladness ring!
    Bind the wreath of orange blossoms, and the wedding garment bring.
    “Come up higher!” cry the angels.--Let the bells in gladness ring.


          Farewell! Farewell!
          Like the chiming of the bells,
          Which a tale of triumph tells;
            As the news in tuneful notes,
            Leaping from the brazen throats,
            On the startled ether floats;--
          So in freedom, great and glorious,
          Over flesh and sense victorious,
    Does the Spirit leap the barrier which across its pathway lies!
          Greater far than royal Cæsar,
          Fearless as the northern Æsir,
    Drawn by Love’s celestial magnet, winged with faith and hope it flies,
    Upward o’er the starry pathway, leading onward through the skies,
    To the land of Light and Beauty, where no bud of promise dies.

          There, through all the vast Empyrean,
          Wafted, as on gales Hesperian,
    Comes the stirring cry of “Progress”! telling of the yet to be.
          Tuneful as a seraph’s lyre,
          “Come up higher! Come up higher!”
    Cry the hosts of holy angels; “learn the heavenly Masonry:
    Life is one eternal progress: enter, then, the Third Degree;--
    Ye who long for light and wisdom seek the Inner Mystery!

    Thus, O Sons of Earth, I leave you!--leave you for that higher light;
    And my charge is now, Receive you all my parting words aright:
    Human passion, mad ambition, bound me to this lower Earth,
    Even in my changed condition--even in my higher birth.
    But, by earnest, firm endeavor, I have gained a height sublime;
    And I ne’er again--no, never!--shall be _bound_ to Space or Time;
    I have conquered! and forever! Let the bells in triumph chime!
    “Come up higher!” cry the angels: “come up to the Royal Arch!
    Come and join the Past Grand Masters, in the Soul’s progressive march,
    O, thou neophyte of Wisdom! Come up to the Royal Arch!”

    Sons of Earth! where’er ye dwell,
    Break Temptation’s magic spell!
    Truth is Heaven, and Falsehood, Hell!
    Lawless Lust a demon fell!
    Sons of Earth! where’er ye dwell,--
    In this Heaven, or in this Hell,--
    When ye hear the solemn swell
    Of Creation’s mighty bell
    Sounding forth Time’s funeral knell,
    Ye shall meet me where I dwell;--
    Until then--FAREWELL! FAREWELL!


[A] Principal parts of the Latin verb _amo_--I love.

[B] Cheerful.

[C] Trembling.

[D] Great.

[E] Gloomy.

[F] Amend.

[G] Astray.

[H] Stop.

[I] True.

[J] Fellow.

[K] Pay attention.

[L] The dragon-ship of the Norse mythology.

[M] The Fates and Furies.

[N] These lines, with those at the close of the lecture, are quoted
from one of my written poems.

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