The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems of ProgressThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Poems of ProgressAuthor: Lizzie DotenRelease date: July 2, 2017 [eBook #55032]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF PROGRESS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Poems of ProgressAuthor: Lizzie DotenRelease date: July 2, 2017 [eBook #55032]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)
Title: Poems of Progress
Author: Lizzie Doten
Author: Lizzie Doten
Release date: July 2, 2017 [eBook #55032]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF PROGRESS ***
[Image unavailable: handwritten: Yours truly Lizzie Doten.]
BYLIZZIE DOTEN.
“If an offence come out of the Truth, better is it that theoffence come, than the Truth be concealed.”Jerome.
“If an offence come out of the Truth, better is it that theoffence come, than the Truth be concealed.”Jerome.
“Stand out of my sunshine.”Diogenes of Sinope.
“Stand out of my sunshine.”Diogenes of Sinope.
BOSTON:WILLIAM WHITE AND COMPANY,BANNER OF LIGHT OFFICE,158 Washington Street.NEW YORK AGENTS—THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY,119 Nassau Street.1871.Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1871,By MISS ELIZABETH DOTEN,In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.Electrotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry,No. 19 Spring Lane.
Doubtlessmany who take up this book, and glance carelessly at its pages, will exclaim, “What! more Spiritualism!” To which remark I answer, yes, more Spiritualism, an unequivocal, undisguised, positive Spiritualism—confirmed by many years of careful observation, study, and experience, and of which this book is the legitimate outgrowth. Eight years have elapsed since my first volume—“Poems from the Inner Life”—was given to the world (to the Preface of which I now refer for any explanation concerning my mediumship). During that interval of time, the ranks of the believers in Spiritualism have steadily increased in numbers, its phenomena, presenting an array of well-established facts, have challenged the investigation of some of the first scientific minds of the age, and its philosophy has done more towards liberating the human mind from the thraldom of old superstitions and creeds than any other form of faith which has arisen for centuries. But as yet, it has not secured that prestige of popularity and respectability which the combined influence of age, wealth, and organized action ever afforded. Consequently, those who are “named by its name” must be prepared to meet the anathemas of religious bigots—the lofty scorn of those who are wise in their own conceit—the scurrilous attacks of those who would divert attention from their own infamy and the petty irritations of a numerous pack who follow at the heels of every new movement, and ever distinguish themselves by noise rather than by knowledge. As a participant in this great movement, I have found such attacks to behelps rather than hinderances to my progress, inasmuch as I have been enabled to define my own positive and affirmative position more clearly from the negations of the opposers of Spiritualism.We are told that “it is not a Religion.” But after a long and careful study of the past and present, I have yet to find any phase of faith, which, in its very inception has commenced so directly at the root of all necessary reform, viz., the purification and harmonious development of the human body. This primary and fundamental truth has been taken as a starting-point—it has been enunciated from the spirit world—repeated by the inspirational speakers—has been interwoven with all the spiritualistic literature, and has found a practical application in the Children’s Lyceums. The religion that teaches, “Take care of the soul, and let the body take care of itself,” will inevitably defeat its own purposes, and has already been taught long enough for us to know that it is a failure. No other form of faith ever brought the spiritual world so near,as to banish its supernatural character, and place it within the province of natural law. No other form of faith hasillustratedthe factso clearly, that just as we go out of this world, so do we enter upon the next, thereby presenting a more rational incentive to endeavor, than the rewards of Heaven or the punishments of Hell; and no other from of faith has so effectually dissipated the idea of an inane and purposeless life in the future, and given to the angels a more exalted employment than “loafing around the throne.” It also teaches that mediumship, under proper circumstances, is ahealthy, harmonious, and normal development of human nature, and that communion with the spiritual world is not interdicted, and no more impossible than any other attainment that lies in the direct line of natural law, human progress, and scientific investigation. This to me, and to those who have accepted Spiritualism thoughtfully and sincerely, makes ita religion indeed, and the positive assertions of any number of intellectual or religious “authorities” to the contrary cannot make it otherwise.We have been told again and again, that “Spiritualism isSupernaturalism,” that we believe in miracles, which are contrary to the “methods” of God’s government. We have denied this repeatedly, assuming that we ourselves had the best right to say what we did believe; but our denial has not been accepted, and the reason is obvious. Any number of scholastic discourses, elaborately written essays, and eloquent appeals to popular prejudice, would lose their pith and marrow, and be found wanting, if this false predicate, this fabricated nucleus for their logic should be disallowed.Again, we are told that “Spiritualism is not Science;” to which we reply, that Spiritualism has presented facts and phenomena which the later discoveries in Science are tending both to explain and substantiate. It has been demonstrated that it is not the eye that sees, the ear that hears, or the nerves that feel, but each of these avenues of sense serves to convey the vibrations of the surrounding “ether” to the central consciousness, which alone is possessed of the power of perception. Since this is so, who shall dare place a limit to the possibilities of that consciousness, of which so little is definitely known? Or why should any man prescribe, as a standard for all others, the limitations of his own feeble consciousness. A modern reasoner tells us that “if the bodily ear receives vibrations from one atmosphere, itcannotreceive them from another, and no fiction of an inner ear can give genuineness to voices and whispers of a spiritual tongue.” Since, however, it is not the outer ear, but the inner consciousness, that hears, a quickening of its perceptions will allow it to catch the vibrations from another atmosphere, and Spiritualism demonstrates, by indisputable facts, that this is so. Also, that this is not anabnormalcondition, butperfectly legitimateto certain states of the inner consciousness.The revelations of the spectroscope, and the investigations of some of the greatest scientific minds of the present day, have determined the existence of a higher scale of vibrations than those which fall within the ordinary range of human vision. All the objects and forms of life comprehended in that scale, although so closely blended and interwoven with the vibrations of our own plane of existence, are lost to our dullperceptions, unless, through some physical or mental condition, there is a quickening of our inner consciousness. When this comes, as it has again and again to many, we have revelations from the “spirit world,” which is, after all, but a finermaterialworld, as real, as substantial, as objective, and as directly within the province of universal law, as that which we now inhabit. That we should be made sensibly aware of this higher life, under certain legitimate conditions, is perfectlynatural. Indeed, it would be strange, with the uniformity of succession and development which pervades all things, if we were not. It is not a world that ispossible, butactual, not one thatmightbe, butis.In this matter, intelligent Spiritualists range themselves side by side with those of whom Professor Tyndall has said, “You never hear the really philosophical defenders of the doctrine of uniformity speaking ofimpossibilitiesin nature. They best know that questions offer themselves to thought, which Science, as now prosecuted, has not even the tendency to solve. They keep such questions open,and will not tolerate any unlawful limitations of the horizon of their souls.” However weak and imperfect our spiritual vision may be at present, we shall use each and every opportunity of obtaining all the information that is possible, either from this world or the next. The report of the committee chosen by the London Dialectical Society, to investigate the subject of Spiritualism, “bears strong testimony in favor of the reality of the manifestations,” and is a step in the right direction. All we ask of our opponents, is fair treatment and an unprejudiced consideration of the facts and phenomena which Spiritualism presents. We do not fear as to the result.But the objection which is most frequently urged against Spiritualism is, that “it is immoral in its tendencies.” In my anxiety to prove all things, I have also taken this matter into careful consideration, and diligently compared the annals of crime in the so-called Christian church with those of Spiritualism. For several years I have collected the items from the daily newspapers, that I might have them for future reference, and in due time come to a just and impartial conclusion.As I write, that record of ministerial delinquency, ecclesiastical abominations, and human frailty, lies before me. Where I have found one spiritual sheep that has gone astray, I have found ninety and nine of the Shepherds in Israel in great need of repentance. Let the church cleanse her own Augean stables before she utters one word in relation to the immoralities of Spiritualism. Casting stones and calling hard names will not profit either party. It is neither Christianity nor Spiritualism that is responsible for these immoralities, butpoor human nature. The remedy lies not in creeds or forms of faith, but in the growth of Truth in the Understanding, and Love in the heart. Not as a Spiritualist, but as a child of humanity, do I hope that the entire world may yet have a moral standard, harmonious with the laws of God and Nature, and consistent with the highest good of the individual and society.Having, from inclination and a sense of duty to my kindred in the faith, pursued the subject thus far, the “Spirit moves me” to present, in conclusion, a few quotations which require neither comment nor explanation.
Doubtlessmany who take up this book, and glance carelessly at its pages, will exclaim, “What! more Spiritualism!” To which remark I answer, yes, more Spiritualism, an unequivocal, undisguised, positive Spiritualism—confirmed by many years of careful observation, study, and experience, and of which this book is the legitimate outgrowth. Eight years have elapsed since my first volume—“Poems from the Inner Life”—was given to the world (to the Preface of which I now refer for any explanation concerning my mediumship). During that interval of time, the ranks of the believers in Spiritualism have steadily increased in numbers, its phenomena, presenting an array of well-established facts, have challenged the investigation of some of the first scientific minds of the age, and its philosophy has done more towards liberating the human mind from the thraldom of old superstitions and creeds than any other form of faith which has arisen for centuries. But as yet, it has not secured that prestige of popularity and respectability which the combined influence of age, wealth, and organized action ever afforded. Consequently, those who are “named by its name” must be prepared to meet the anathemas of religious bigots—the lofty scorn of those who are wise in their own conceit—the scurrilous attacks of those who would divert attention from their own infamy and the petty irritations of a numerous pack who follow at the heels of every new movement, and ever distinguish themselves by noise rather than by knowledge. As a participant in this great movement, I have found such attacks to behelps rather than hinderances to my progress, inasmuch as I have been enabled to define my own positive and affirmative position more clearly from the negations of the opposers of Spiritualism.
We are told that “it is not a Religion.” But after a long and careful study of the past and present, I have yet to find any phase of faith, which, in its very inception has commenced so directly at the root of all necessary reform, viz., the purification and harmonious development of the human body. This primary and fundamental truth has been taken as a starting-point—it has been enunciated from the spirit world—repeated by the inspirational speakers—has been interwoven with all the spiritualistic literature, and has found a practical application in the Children’s Lyceums. The religion that teaches, “Take care of the soul, and let the body take care of itself,” will inevitably defeat its own purposes, and has already been taught long enough for us to know that it is a failure. No other form of faith ever brought the spiritual world so near,as to banish its supernatural character, and place it within the province of natural law. No other form of faith hasillustratedthe factso clearly, that just as we go out of this world, so do we enter upon the next, thereby presenting a more rational incentive to endeavor, than the rewards of Heaven or the punishments of Hell; and no other from of faith has so effectually dissipated the idea of an inane and purposeless life in the future, and given to the angels a more exalted employment than “loafing around the throne.” It also teaches that mediumship, under proper circumstances, is ahealthy, harmonious, and normal development of human nature, and that communion with the spiritual world is not interdicted, and no more impossible than any other attainment that lies in the direct line of natural law, human progress, and scientific investigation. This to me, and to those who have accepted Spiritualism thoughtfully and sincerely, makes ita religion indeed, and the positive assertions of any number of intellectual or religious “authorities” to the contrary cannot make it otherwise.
We have been told again and again, that “Spiritualism isSupernaturalism,” that we believe in miracles, which are contrary to the “methods” of God’s government. We have denied this repeatedly, assuming that we ourselves had the best right to say what we did believe; but our denial has not been accepted, and the reason is obvious. Any number of scholastic discourses, elaborately written essays, and eloquent appeals to popular prejudice, would lose their pith and marrow, and be found wanting, if this false predicate, this fabricated nucleus for their logic should be disallowed.
Again, we are told that “Spiritualism is not Science;” to which we reply, that Spiritualism has presented facts and phenomena which the later discoveries in Science are tending both to explain and substantiate. It has been demonstrated that it is not the eye that sees, the ear that hears, or the nerves that feel, but each of these avenues of sense serves to convey the vibrations of the surrounding “ether” to the central consciousness, which alone is possessed of the power of perception. Since this is so, who shall dare place a limit to the possibilities of that consciousness, of which so little is definitely known? Or why should any man prescribe, as a standard for all others, the limitations of his own feeble consciousness. A modern reasoner tells us that “if the bodily ear receives vibrations from one atmosphere, itcannotreceive them from another, and no fiction of an inner ear can give genuineness to voices and whispers of a spiritual tongue.” Since, however, it is not the outer ear, but the inner consciousness, that hears, a quickening of its perceptions will allow it to catch the vibrations from another atmosphere, and Spiritualism demonstrates, by indisputable facts, that this is so. Also, that this is not anabnormalcondition, butperfectly legitimateto certain states of the inner consciousness.
The revelations of the spectroscope, and the investigations of some of the greatest scientific minds of the present day, have determined the existence of a higher scale of vibrations than those which fall within the ordinary range of human vision. All the objects and forms of life comprehended in that scale, although so closely blended and interwoven with the vibrations of our own plane of existence, are lost to our dullperceptions, unless, through some physical or mental condition, there is a quickening of our inner consciousness. When this comes, as it has again and again to many, we have revelations from the “spirit world,” which is, after all, but a finermaterialworld, as real, as substantial, as objective, and as directly within the province of universal law, as that which we now inhabit. That we should be made sensibly aware of this higher life, under certain legitimate conditions, is perfectlynatural. Indeed, it would be strange, with the uniformity of succession and development which pervades all things, if we were not. It is not a world that ispossible, butactual, not one thatmightbe, butis.
In this matter, intelligent Spiritualists range themselves side by side with those of whom Professor Tyndall has said, “You never hear the really philosophical defenders of the doctrine of uniformity speaking ofimpossibilitiesin nature. They best know that questions offer themselves to thought, which Science, as now prosecuted, has not even the tendency to solve. They keep such questions open,and will not tolerate any unlawful limitations of the horizon of their souls.” However weak and imperfect our spiritual vision may be at present, we shall use each and every opportunity of obtaining all the information that is possible, either from this world or the next. The report of the committee chosen by the London Dialectical Society, to investigate the subject of Spiritualism, “bears strong testimony in favor of the reality of the manifestations,” and is a step in the right direction. All we ask of our opponents, is fair treatment and an unprejudiced consideration of the facts and phenomena which Spiritualism presents. We do not fear as to the result.
But the objection which is most frequently urged against Spiritualism is, that “it is immoral in its tendencies.” In my anxiety to prove all things, I have also taken this matter into careful consideration, and diligently compared the annals of crime in the so-called Christian church with those of Spiritualism. For several years I have collected the items from the daily newspapers, that I might have them for future reference, and in due time come to a just and impartial conclusion.As I write, that record of ministerial delinquency, ecclesiastical abominations, and human frailty, lies before me. Where I have found one spiritual sheep that has gone astray, I have found ninety and nine of the Shepherds in Israel in great need of repentance. Let the church cleanse her own Augean stables before she utters one word in relation to the immoralities of Spiritualism. Casting stones and calling hard names will not profit either party. It is neither Christianity nor Spiritualism that is responsible for these immoralities, butpoor human nature. The remedy lies not in creeds or forms of faith, but in the growth of Truth in the Understanding, and Love in the heart. Not as a Spiritualist, but as a child of humanity, do I hope that the entire world may yet have a moral standard, harmonious with the laws of God and Nature, and consistent with the highest good of the individual and society.
Having, from inclination and a sense of duty to my kindred in the faith, pursued the subject thus far, the “Spirit moves me” to present, in conclusion, a few quotations which require neither comment nor explanation.
“If we arewisewe shall sit down upon the brink and content ourselves with saying what the spiritual worldis notandcannot be.* * The soulmustbe entirely ignorant of the second body until it has ceased to use the first. * * The new organs, may be, all correspond in intention and effect to the present ones; but we say thatthey do not yet exist.They cannot exist; the ground is pre-occupied.”John Weiss,Unitarian Monthly Journal, May, 1866.
“If we arewisewe shall sit down upon the brink and content ourselves with saying what the spiritual worldis notandcannot be.* * The soulmustbe entirely ignorant of the second body until it has ceased to use the first. * * The new organs, may be, all correspond in intention and effect to the present ones; but we say thatthey do not yet exist.They cannot exist; the ground is pre-occupied.”
John Weiss,Unitarian Monthly Journal, May, 1866.
“Moreover, the satellites of Jupiter are invisible to the naked eye, and therefore can exercise no influence over the Earth, and therefore would be useless, and thereforedo not exist.”Francesco Sizzi, Times of Galileo.
“Moreover, the satellites of Jupiter are invisible to the naked eye, and therefore can exercise no influence over the Earth, and therefore would be useless, and thereforedo not exist.”
Francesco Sizzi, Times of Galileo.
“If the Spiritualists would secure the favor ofsensible peoplethey must let them see that they are not at war with good sense. * * It were better that very sacred and dear beliefsshould go, than that this enemy of all rational belief should remain. Let us prefer to havenoother world, than to have another world full of teasing, troublesome, meddlesome beings, who interfere with the rational order of the world we dwell in.”O. B. Frothingham,“The Index,” July 8, 1871.
“If the Spiritualists would secure the favor ofsensible peoplethey must let them see that they are not at war with good sense. * * It were better that very sacred and dear beliefsshould go, than that this enemy of all rational belief should remain. Let us prefer to havenoother world, than to have another world full of teasing, troublesome, meddlesome beings, who interfere with the rational order of the world we dwell in.”
O. B. Frothingham,“The Index,” July 8, 1871.
“If the new planets were acknowledged, what a chaos would ensue!” * * “I will never concede his four new planets to that Italian, though I die for it.”Martin Horky, Times of Galileo.
“If the new planets were acknowledged, what a chaos would ensue!” * * “I will never concede his four new planets to that Italian, though I die for it.”
Martin Horky, Times of Galileo.
“O my beloved Kepler! How I wish we could have one good laugh together! Here, at Padua, is the principal Professor of Philosophy, whom I have repeatedly and urgently requested to look at the moon and planets through my telescope, which he pertinaciously refuses to do! Why, my dear Kepler, are you not here? What shouts of laughter we should have atall this solemn folly!”Letter from Galileo to John Kepler.
“O my beloved Kepler! How I wish we could have one good laugh together! Here, at Padua, is the principal Professor of Philosophy, whom I have repeatedly and urgently requested to look at the moon and planets through my telescope, which he pertinaciously refuses to do! Why, my dear Kepler, are you not here? What shouts of laughter we should have atall this solemn folly!”
Letter from Galileo to John Kepler.
John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom created them all.John was a statesman, and Peter a slave,Robert a preacher, and Paul—was a knave.Evil or good as the case might be,White, or colored, or bond, or free—John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom created them all.Out of earth’s elements, mingled with flame,Out of life’s compounds of glory and shame,Fashioned and shaped by no will of their own,And helplessly into life’s history thrown;Born by the law that compels men to be,Born to conditions they could not foresee,John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom created them all.John was the head and the heart of his State,Was trusted and honored, was noble and great.Peter was made ’neath life’s burdens to groan,And never once dreamed that his soul was his own.Robert great glory and honor received,For zealously preaching what no one believed;While Paul, of the pleasures of sin took his fill,And gave up his life to the service of ill.It chanced that these men, in their passing awayFrom earth and its conflicts, all died the same day.John was mourned through the length and the breadth of the land—Peter fell ’neath the lash in a merciless hand—Robert died with the praise of the Lord on his tongue—While Paul was convicted of murder, and hung.John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,The purpose of life was fulfilled in them all.Men said of the Statesman—“How noble and brave!”But of Peter, alas!—“he was only a Slave.”Of Robert—“’Tis well with his soul—it is well;”While Paul they consigned to the torments of hell.Born by one law through all Nature the same,Whatmade them differ? andwhowas to blame?John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom created them all.Out in that region of infinite light,Where the soul of the black man is pure as the white—Out where the spirit, through sorrow made wise,No longer resorts to deception and lies—Out where the flesh can no longer controlThe freedom and faith of the God-given soul—Who shall determine what change may befallJohn, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul?John may in wisdom and goodness increase—Peter rejoice in an infinite peace—Robert may learn that the truths of the LordAre more in the spirit, and less in the word—And Paul may be blest with a holier birthThan the passions of man had allowed him on earth.John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom will care for them all.
John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom created them all.John was a statesman, and Peter a slave,Robert a preacher, and Paul—was a knave.Evil or good as the case might be,White, or colored, or bond, or free—John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom created them all.Out of earth’s elements, mingled with flame,Out of life’s compounds of glory and shame,Fashioned and shaped by no will of their own,And helplessly into life’s history thrown;Born by the law that compels men to be,Born to conditions they could not foresee,John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom created them all.John was the head and the heart of his State,Was trusted and honored, was noble and great.Peter was made ’neath life’s burdens to groan,And never once dreamed that his soul was his own.Robert great glory and honor received,For zealously preaching what no one believed;While Paul, of the pleasures of sin took his fill,And gave up his life to the service of ill.It chanced that these men, in their passing awayFrom earth and its conflicts, all died the same day.John was mourned through the length and the breadth of the land—Peter fell ’neath the lash in a merciless hand—Robert died with the praise of the Lord on his tongue—While Paul was convicted of murder, and hung.John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,The purpose of life was fulfilled in them all.Men said of the Statesman—“How noble and brave!”But of Peter, alas!—“he was only a Slave.”Of Robert—“’Tis well with his soul—it is well;”While Paul they consigned to the torments of hell.Born by one law through all Nature the same,Whatmade them differ? andwhowas to blame?John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom created them all.Out in that region of infinite light,Where the soul of the black man is pure as the white—Out where the spirit, through sorrow made wise,No longer resorts to deception and lies—Out where the flesh can no longer controlThe freedom and faith of the God-given soul—Who shall determine what change may befallJohn, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul?John may in wisdom and goodness increase—Peter rejoice in an infinite peace—Robert may learn that the truths of the LordAre more in the spirit, and less in the word—And Paul may be blest with a holier birthThan the passions of man had allowed him on earth.John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom will care for them all.
John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom created them all.John was a statesman, and Peter a slave,Robert a preacher, and Paul—was a knave.Evil or good as the case might be,White, or colored, or bond, or free—John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom created them all.
Out of earth’s elements, mingled with flame,Out of life’s compounds of glory and shame,Fashioned and shaped by no will of their own,And helplessly into life’s history thrown;Born by the law that compels men to be,Born to conditions they could not foresee,John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom created them all.
John was the head and the heart of his State,Was trusted and honored, was noble and great.Peter was made ’neath life’s burdens to groan,And never once dreamed that his soul was his own.Robert great glory and honor received,For zealously preaching what no one believed;While Paul, of the pleasures of sin took his fill,And gave up his life to the service of ill.
It chanced that these men, in their passing awayFrom earth and its conflicts, all died the same day.John was mourned through the length and the breadth of the land—Peter fell ’neath the lash in a merciless hand—Robert died with the praise of the Lord on his tongue—While Paul was convicted of murder, and hung.John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,The purpose of life was fulfilled in them all.
Men said of the Statesman—“How noble and brave!”But of Peter, alas!—“he was only a Slave.”Of Robert—“’Tis well with his soul—it is well;”While Paul they consigned to the torments of hell.Born by one law through all Nature the same,Whatmade them differ? andwhowas to blame?John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom created them all.
Out in that region of infinite light,Where the soul of the black man is pure as the white—Out where the spirit, through sorrow made wise,No longer resorts to deception and lies—Out where the flesh can no longer controlThe freedom and faith of the God-given soul—Who shall determine what change may befallJohn, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul?
John may in wisdom and goodness increase—Peter rejoice in an infinite peace—Robert may learn that the truths of the LordAre more in the spirit, and less in the word—And Paul may be blest with a holier birthThan the passions of man had allowed him on earth.John, and Peter, and Robert, and Paul,God in his wisdom will care for them all.
Thepeaceful night, “the stilly night,”Came down on wings of purple gloom,And with her eyes of starry light,Looked through the darkness of my room;Peace was the pillow for my head,While angels watched around my bed.Freed from a weight of cumbering care,My earnest spirit seemed to rise,And on the wings of faith and prayer,I sought the gates of Paradise;Like priceless pearls I saw them gleam,As in the Revelator’s dream.O, holy, holy was the songOf blessed spirits echoing thence,So soft and clear it swept along,It ravished all my soul and sense;Close to those gates of light I crept,And like a homeless orphan wept.The white-robed angels went and came—The white-robed angels saw me there—And one, in our dear Father’s name,Came at my spirit’s voiceless prayer.“Dear child,” he said, “why dost thou waitWith weeping at the heavenly gate?”“O, weary are my feet,” I cried,“With wandering o’er the earthly way;Lo, all my hopes hang crucified,And all my idols turn to clay;Far distant now the Father seems,And heaven comes only in my dreams.”He laid his hand upon my head,And tenderly the angel smiled.“Thy Father knows thy need,” he said,“And he will aid his suffering child.Return unto thine earthly home—His kingdom yet shall surely come.”Obedient at the word I turned,And sought mine earthly home once more,While all my soul within me burned,With joy I never knew before;For that blest vision of the nightHad filled me with celestial light.Still o’er my life its glories stream,The solace of my lonely hours,Fair as the sunset’s golden gleam,And lovely as the bloom of flowers;A sweet assurance, calm and deep,Which treasured in my soul I keep.Henceforth I wait with anxious eyes,Until the shadows flee away,To see the morning star arise,Which ushers in that glorious day.Be patient, O my heart! be stillTill time the promise shall fulfill.
Thepeaceful night, “the stilly night,”Came down on wings of purple gloom,And with her eyes of starry light,Looked through the darkness of my room;Peace was the pillow for my head,While angels watched around my bed.Freed from a weight of cumbering care,My earnest spirit seemed to rise,And on the wings of faith and prayer,I sought the gates of Paradise;Like priceless pearls I saw them gleam,As in the Revelator’s dream.O, holy, holy was the songOf blessed spirits echoing thence,So soft and clear it swept along,It ravished all my soul and sense;Close to those gates of light I crept,And like a homeless orphan wept.The white-robed angels went and came—The white-robed angels saw me there—And one, in our dear Father’s name,Came at my spirit’s voiceless prayer.“Dear child,” he said, “why dost thou waitWith weeping at the heavenly gate?”“O, weary are my feet,” I cried,“With wandering o’er the earthly way;Lo, all my hopes hang crucified,And all my idols turn to clay;Far distant now the Father seems,And heaven comes only in my dreams.”He laid his hand upon my head,And tenderly the angel smiled.“Thy Father knows thy need,” he said,“And he will aid his suffering child.Return unto thine earthly home—His kingdom yet shall surely come.”Obedient at the word I turned,And sought mine earthly home once more,While all my soul within me burned,With joy I never knew before;For that blest vision of the nightHad filled me with celestial light.Still o’er my life its glories stream,The solace of my lonely hours,Fair as the sunset’s golden gleam,And lovely as the bloom of flowers;A sweet assurance, calm and deep,Which treasured in my soul I keep.Henceforth I wait with anxious eyes,Until the shadows flee away,To see the morning star arise,Which ushers in that glorious day.Be patient, O my heart! be stillTill time the promise shall fulfill.
Thepeaceful night, “the stilly night,”Came down on wings of purple gloom,And with her eyes of starry light,Looked through the darkness of my room;Peace was the pillow for my head,While angels watched around my bed.
Freed from a weight of cumbering care,My earnest spirit seemed to rise,And on the wings of faith and prayer,I sought the gates of Paradise;Like priceless pearls I saw them gleam,As in the Revelator’s dream.
O, holy, holy was the songOf blessed spirits echoing thence,So soft and clear it swept along,It ravished all my soul and sense;Close to those gates of light I crept,And like a homeless orphan wept.
The white-robed angels went and came—The white-robed angels saw me there—And one, in our dear Father’s name,Came at my spirit’s voiceless prayer.“Dear child,” he said, “why dost thou waitWith weeping at the heavenly gate?”
“O, weary are my feet,” I cried,“With wandering o’er the earthly way;Lo, all my hopes hang crucified,And all my idols turn to clay;Far distant now the Father seems,And heaven comes only in my dreams.”
He laid his hand upon my head,And tenderly the angel smiled.“Thy Father knows thy need,” he said,“And he will aid his suffering child.Return unto thine earthly home—His kingdom yet shall surely come.”
Obedient at the word I turned,And sought mine earthly home once more,While all my soul within me burned,With joy I never knew before;For that blest vision of the nightHad filled me with celestial light.
Still o’er my life its glories stream,The solace of my lonely hours,Fair as the sunset’s golden gleam,And lovely as the bloom of flowers;A sweet assurance, calm and deep,Which treasured in my soul I keep.
Henceforth I wait with anxious eyes,Until the shadows flee away,To see the morning star arise,Which ushers in that glorious day.Be patient, O my heart! be stillTill time the promise shall fulfill.
“The bond which unites the human to the divine is Love, and Love is the longing of the Soul for Beauty; the inextinguishable desire which like feels for like, which the divinity within us feels for the divinity revealed to us in Beauty. Beauty is Truth.”—Plato.
“The bond which unites the human to the divine is Love, and Love is the longing of the Soul for Beauty; the inextinguishable desire which like feels for like, which the divinity within us feels for the divinity revealed to us in Beauty. Beauty is Truth.”—Plato.
Ihavecome from the heart of all natural things,Whose life from the Soul of the Beautiful springs;You shall hear the sweet waving of corn in my voice,And the musical whisper of leaves that rejoice,For my lips have been touched by the spirit of prayer,Which lingers unseen in the soft summer air;And the smile of the sunshine that brightens the skies,Hath left a glad ray of its light in my eyes.On the sea-beaten shore—’mid the dwellings of men—In the field, or the forest, or wild mountain glen;Wherever the grass or a daisy could spring,Or the musical laughter of childhood could ring;Wherever a swallow could build ’neath the eaves,Or a squirrel could hide in his covert of leaves,I have felt the sweet presence, and heard the low call,Of the Spirit of Nature, which quickens us all.Grown weary and worn with the conflict of creeds,I had sought a new faith for the soul with its needs,When the love of the Beautiful guided my feetThrough a leafy arcade to a sylvan retreat,Where the oriole sung in the branches above,And the wild roses burned with their blushes of love,And the purple-fringed aster, and bright golden-*rod,Like jewels of beauty adorned the green sod.O, how blesséd to feel from the care-laden heartAll the sorrows and woes that oppressed it depart,And to lay the tired head, with its achings, to restOn the heart of all others that loves it the best;O, thus is it ever, when, wearied, we yearnTo the bosom of Nature and Truth to return,And life blossoms forth into beauty anew,As we learn to repose in the Simple and True.No longer with self or with Nature at strife,The soul feels the presence of Infinite Life;And the voice of a child, or the hum of a bee—The somnolent roll of the deep-heaving sea—The mountains uprising in grandeur and might—The stars that look forth from the depths of the night—All speak in one language, persuasive and clear,To him who in spirit is waiting to hear.There is something in Nature beyond our control,That is tenderly winning the love of each soul;We shall linger no longer in darkness and doubt,When the Beauty within meets the Beauty without.Sweet Spirit of Nature! wherever thou art,O, fold us like children, close, close to thy heart;Till we learn that thy bosom is Truth’s hallowed shrine,And the Soul of the Beautiful is—the Divine.
Ihavecome from the heart of all natural things,Whose life from the Soul of the Beautiful springs;You shall hear the sweet waving of corn in my voice,And the musical whisper of leaves that rejoice,For my lips have been touched by the spirit of prayer,Which lingers unseen in the soft summer air;And the smile of the sunshine that brightens the skies,Hath left a glad ray of its light in my eyes.On the sea-beaten shore—’mid the dwellings of men—In the field, or the forest, or wild mountain glen;Wherever the grass or a daisy could spring,Or the musical laughter of childhood could ring;Wherever a swallow could build ’neath the eaves,Or a squirrel could hide in his covert of leaves,I have felt the sweet presence, and heard the low call,Of the Spirit of Nature, which quickens us all.Grown weary and worn with the conflict of creeds,I had sought a new faith for the soul with its needs,When the love of the Beautiful guided my feetThrough a leafy arcade to a sylvan retreat,Where the oriole sung in the branches above,And the wild roses burned with their blushes of love,And the purple-fringed aster, and bright golden-*rod,Like jewels of beauty adorned the green sod.O, how blesséd to feel from the care-laden heartAll the sorrows and woes that oppressed it depart,And to lay the tired head, with its achings, to restOn the heart of all others that loves it the best;O, thus is it ever, when, wearied, we yearnTo the bosom of Nature and Truth to return,And life blossoms forth into beauty anew,As we learn to repose in the Simple and True.No longer with self or with Nature at strife,The soul feels the presence of Infinite Life;And the voice of a child, or the hum of a bee—The somnolent roll of the deep-heaving sea—The mountains uprising in grandeur and might—The stars that look forth from the depths of the night—All speak in one language, persuasive and clear,To him who in spirit is waiting to hear.There is something in Nature beyond our control,That is tenderly winning the love of each soul;We shall linger no longer in darkness and doubt,When the Beauty within meets the Beauty without.Sweet Spirit of Nature! wherever thou art,O, fold us like children, close, close to thy heart;Till we learn that thy bosom is Truth’s hallowed shrine,And the Soul of the Beautiful is—the Divine.
Ihavecome from the heart of all natural things,Whose life from the Soul of the Beautiful springs;You shall hear the sweet waving of corn in my voice,And the musical whisper of leaves that rejoice,For my lips have been touched by the spirit of prayer,Which lingers unseen in the soft summer air;And the smile of the sunshine that brightens the skies,Hath left a glad ray of its light in my eyes.
On the sea-beaten shore—’mid the dwellings of men—In the field, or the forest, or wild mountain glen;Wherever the grass or a daisy could spring,Or the musical laughter of childhood could ring;Wherever a swallow could build ’neath the eaves,Or a squirrel could hide in his covert of leaves,I have felt the sweet presence, and heard the low call,Of the Spirit of Nature, which quickens us all.
Grown weary and worn with the conflict of creeds,I had sought a new faith for the soul with its needs,When the love of the Beautiful guided my feetThrough a leafy arcade to a sylvan retreat,Where the oriole sung in the branches above,And the wild roses burned with their blushes of love,And the purple-fringed aster, and bright golden-*rod,Like jewels of beauty adorned the green sod.
O, how blesséd to feel from the care-laden heartAll the sorrows and woes that oppressed it depart,And to lay the tired head, with its achings, to restOn the heart of all others that loves it the best;O, thus is it ever, when, wearied, we yearnTo the bosom of Nature and Truth to return,And life blossoms forth into beauty anew,As we learn to repose in the Simple and True.
No longer with self or with Nature at strife,The soul feels the presence of Infinite Life;And the voice of a child, or the hum of a bee—The somnolent roll of the deep-heaving sea—The mountains uprising in grandeur and might—The stars that look forth from the depths of the night—All speak in one language, persuasive and clear,To him who in spirit is waiting to hear.
There is something in Nature beyond our control,That is tenderly winning the love of each soul;We shall linger no longer in darkness and doubt,When the Beauty within meets the Beauty without.Sweet Spirit of Nature! wherever thou art,O, fold us like children, close, close to thy heart;Till we learn that thy bosom is Truth’s hallowed shrine,And the Soul of the Beautiful is—the Divine.
OldMargery Miller sat alone,One Christmas eve, by her poor hearthstone,Where dimly the fading firelight shone.Her brow was furrowed with signs of care,Her lips moved gently, as if in prayer—For O, life’s burden was hard to bear.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Her friends, like the birds of summer had flown.Full eighty summers had swiftly sped,Full eighty winters their snows had shed,With silver-sheen, on her aged head.One by one had her loved ones died—One by one had they left her side—Fading like flowers in their summer pride.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Had God forgottenshewas his own?No castle was hers with a spacious lawn;Her poor old hut was the proud man’s scorn;Yet Margery Miller was nobly born.A brother she had, who once wore a crown,Whose deeds of greatness and high renownFrom age to age had been handed down.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Where was her kingdom, her crown or throne?Margery Miller, a child of God,Meekly and bravely life’s path had trod,Nor deemed affliction a “chastening rod.”Her brother, Jesus, who went before,A crown of thorns in his meekness wore,And what, poor soul! couldshehope for more?Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Strange that her heart had not turned to stone!Ay, there she sat, on that Christmas eve,Seeking some dream of the past to weave,Patiently striving not to grieve.O, for those long, long eighty years,How had she struggled with doubts and fears,Shedding in secret unnumbered tears!Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Howcouldshe stifle her sad heart’s moan?Soft on her ear fell the Christmas chimes,Bringing the thought of the dear old times,Like birds that sing of far distant climes.Thenswelled the flood of her pent-up grief—Swayed like a reed in the tempest brief,Her bowed form shook like an aspen leaf.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,How heavy the burden of life had grown!“O God!” she cried, “I am lonely here,Bereft of all that my heart holds dear;Yet Thou dost never refuse to hear.“O, if the dead were allowed to speak!Could I only look on their faces meek,How it would strengthen my heart so weak!”Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,What was that light which around her shone?Dim on the hearth burned the embers red,Yet soft and clear, on her silvered head,A light like the sunset glow was shed.Bright blossoms fell on the cottage floor,“Mother” was whispered, as oft before,And long-lost faces gleamed forth once more.Poor old Margery Miller!No longer alone,Unsought, unknown,How light the burden of life had grown!She lifted her withered hands on high,And uttered the eager, earnest cry,“God of all mercy! now let me die.“Beautiful Angels, fair and bright,Holding thehemof your garments white,Let me go forth to the world of light.”Poor old Margery Miller!So earnest grown!Was she left alone?His humble child did the Lord disown?O, sweet was the sound of the Christmas bell,As its musical changes rose and fell,With a low refrain or a solemn swell.But sweeter by far was the blesséd strain,That soothed old Margery Miller’s pain,And gave her comfort and peace again.Poor old Margery Miller!In silence alone,Her faith had grown;And now the blossom had brightly blown.Out of the glory that burned like flame,Calmly a great white angel came—Softly he whispered her humble name.“Child of the highest,” he gently said,“Thy toils are ended, thy tears are shed,And life immortal now crowns thy head.”Poor old Margery Miller!No longer alone,Unsought, unknown,Godhad notforgotten she was his own.A change o’er her pallid features passed;She felt that her feet were nearing fastThe land of safety and peace, at last.She faintly murmured, “God’s name be blest!”And folding her hands on her dying breast,She calmly sank to her dreamless rest.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Without one moan,Her patient spirit at length had flown.Next morning a stranger found her there,Her pale hands folded as if in prayer,Sitting so still in her old arm-chair.He spoke—but she answered not again,For, far away from all earthly pain,Her voice was singing a joyful strain.Poor old Margery Miller!Her spirit had flownTo the world unknown,Where true heartsnevercan be alone.
OldMargery Miller sat alone,One Christmas eve, by her poor hearthstone,Where dimly the fading firelight shone.Her brow was furrowed with signs of care,Her lips moved gently, as if in prayer—For O, life’s burden was hard to bear.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Her friends, like the birds of summer had flown.Full eighty summers had swiftly sped,Full eighty winters their snows had shed,With silver-sheen, on her aged head.One by one had her loved ones died—One by one had they left her side—Fading like flowers in their summer pride.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Had God forgottenshewas his own?No castle was hers with a spacious lawn;Her poor old hut was the proud man’s scorn;Yet Margery Miller was nobly born.A brother she had, who once wore a crown,Whose deeds of greatness and high renownFrom age to age had been handed down.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Where was her kingdom, her crown or throne?Margery Miller, a child of God,Meekly and bravely life’s path had trod,Nor deemed affliction a “chastening rod.”Her brother, Jesus, who went before,A crown of thorns in his meekness wore,And what, poor soul! couldshehope for more?Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Strange that her heart had not turned to stone!Ay, there she sat, on that Christmas eve,Seeking some dream of the past to weave,Patiently striving not to grieve.O, for those long, long eighty years,How had she struggled with doubts and fears,Shedding in secret unnumbered tears!Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Howcouldshe stifle her sad heart’s moan?Soft on her ear fell the Christmas chimes,Bringing the thought of the dear old times,Like birds that sing of far distant climes.Thenswelled the flood of her pent-up grief—Swayed like a reed in the tempest brief,Her bowed form shook like an aspen leaf.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,How heavy the burden of life had grown!“O God!” she cried, “I am lonely here,Bereft of all that my heart holds dear;Yet Thou dost never refuse to hear.“O, if the dead were allowed to speak!Could I only look on their faces meek,How it would strengthen my heart so weak!”Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,What was that light which around her shone?Dim on the hearth burned the embers red,Yet soft and clear, on her silvered head,A light like the sunset glow was shed.Bright blossoms fell on the cottage floor,“Mother” was whispered, as oft before,And long-lost faces gleamed forth once more.Poor old Margery Miller!No longer alone,Unsought, unknown,How light the burden of life had grown!She lifted her withered hands on high,And uttered the eager, earnest cry,“God of all mercy! now let me die.“Beautiful Angels, fair and bright,Holding thehemof your garments white,Let me go forth to the world of light.”Poor old Margery Miller!So earnest grown!Was she left alone?His humble child did the Lord disown?O, sweet was the sound of the Christmas bell,As its musical changes rose and fell,With a low refrain or a solemn swell.But sweeter by far was the blesséd strain,That soothed old Margery Miller’s pain,And gave her comfort and peace again.Poor old Margery Miller!In silence alone,Her faith had grown;And now the blossom had brightly blown.Out of the glory that burned like flame,Calmly a great white angel came—Softly he whispered her humble name.“Child of the highest,” he gently said,“Thy toils are ended, thy tears are shed,And life immortal now crowns thy head.”Poor old Margery Miller!No longer alone,Unsought, unknown,Godhad notforgotten she was his own.A change o’er her pallid features passed;She felt that her feet were nearing fastThe land of safety and peace, at last.She faintly murmured, “God’s name be blest!”And folding her hands on her dying breast,She calmly sank to her dreamless rest.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Without one moan,Her patient spirit at length had flown.Next morning a stranger found her there,Her pale hands folded as if in prayer,Sitting so still in her old arm-chair.He spoke—but she answered not again,For, far away from all earthly pain,Her voice was singing a joyful strain.Poor old Margery Miller!Her spirit had flownTo the world unknown,Where true heartsnevercan be alone.
OldMargery Miller sat alone,One Christmas eve, by her poor hearthstone,Where dimly the fading firelight shone.
Her brow was furrowed with signs of care,Her lips moved gently, as if in prayer—For O, life’s burden was hard to bear.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Her friends, like the birds of summer had flown.
Full eighty summers had swiftly sped,Full eighty winters their snows had shed,With silver-sheen, on her aged head.
One by one had her loved ones died—One by one had they left her side—Fading like flowers in their summer pride.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Had God forgottenshewas his own?
No castle was hers with a spacious lawn;Her poor old hut was the proud man’s scorn;Yet Margery Miller was nobly born.
A brother she had, who once wore a crown,Whose deeds of greatness and high renownFrom age to age had been handed down.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Where was her kingdom, her crown or throne?
Margery Miller, a child of God,Meekly and bravely life’s path had trod,Nor deemed affliction a “chastening rod.”
Her brother, Jesus, who went before,A crown of thorns in his meekness wore,And what, poor soul! couldshehope for more?Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Strange that her heart had not turned to stone!
Ay, there she sat, on that Christmas eve,Seeking some dream of the past to weave,Patiently striving not to grieve.
O, for those long, long eighty years,How had she struggled with doubts and fears,Shedding in secret unnumbered tears!Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,Howcouldshe stifle her sad heart’s moan?
Soft on her ear fell the Christmas chimes,Bringing the thought of the dear old times,Like birds that sing of far distant climes.
Thenswelled the flood of her pent-up grief—Swayed like a reed in the tempest brief,Her bowed form shook like an aspen leaf.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,How heavy the burden of life had grown!
“O God!” she cried, “I am lonely here,Bereft of all that my heart holds dear;Yet Thou dost never refuse to hear.
“O, if the dead were allowed to speak!Could I only look on their faces meek,How it would strengthen my heart so weak!”Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Unsought, unknown,What was that light which around her shone?
Dim on the hearth burned the embers red,Yet soft and clear, on her silvered head,A light like the sunset glow was shed.
Bright blossoms fell on the cottage floor,“Mother” was whispered, as oft before,And long-lost faces gleamed forth once more.Poor old Margery Miller!No longer alone,Unsought, unknown,How light the burden of life had grown!
She lifted her withered hands on high,And uttered the eager, earnest cry,“God of all mercy! now let me die.
“Beautiful Angels, fair and bright,Holding thehemof your garments white,Let me go forth to the world of light.”Poor old Margery Miller!So earnest grown!Was she left alone?His humble child did the Lord disown?
O, sweet was the sound of the Christmas bell,As its musical changes rose and fell,With a low refrain or a solemn swell.
But sweeter by far was the blesséd strain,That soothed old Margery Miller’s pain,And gave her comfort and peace again.Poor old Margery Miller!In silence alone,Her faith had grown;And now the blossom had brightly blown.
Out of the glory that burned like flame,Calmly a great white angel came—Softly he whispered her humble name.
“Child of the highest,” he gently said,“Thy toils are ended, thy tears are shed,And life immortal now crowns thy head.”Poor old Margery Miller!No longer alone,Unsought, unknown,Godhad notforgotten she was his own.
A change o’er her pallid features passed;She felt that her feet were nearing fastThe land of safety and peace, at last.
She faintly murmured, “God’s name be blest!”And folding her hands on her dying breast,She calmly sank to her dreamless rest.Poor old Margery Miller!Sitting alone,Without one moan,Her patient spirit at length had flown.
Next morning a stranger found her there,Her pale hands folded as if in prayer,Sitting so still in her old arm-chair.
He spoke—but she answered not again,For, far away from all earthly pain,Her voice was singing a joyful strain.Poor old Margery Miller!Her spirit had flownTo the world unknown,Where true heartsnevercan be alone.