To leave all these, and find a perfect life,To know that Heaven is sure eternally,That sickness ne’er again will waste our frame,That death shall never come again. The mindIn perfect peace and happiness; the hiddenSpread out before its ken; a sweet contentPervading every thought, because “just now”Yields happiness as great as future years;Because Life’s highest end is now attained.The consciousness of merit, with rewardSurpassing far all we deserved. A HomeOf perfect peace, no envious spite or hateWithin its sacred walls, but all pure loveTowards our fellows, gratitude to God,A gratitude that all Eternal lifeWill not suffice to prove. ’Twere joy enoughTo lie before the Throne, and ever cryOur thanks for mercy so supreme! And oh!The vast tranquillity of those who feelThat life on Earth is ended, Heaven gained!The Angel marked my gaze of rapt delight,And said, “Wouldst thou go nearer?” Swift as lightWe moved towards the City. On the steps,In dreamy ecstasy, I lay, afraid to move,Lest all the panorama should dissolve.I cared not that I was unfit to go,I cared not that I must return to Earth;I felt one moment in the Golden wallsWas worth a dungeon’s chains “threescore and ten.”The glory of its music, and its light,Grew too intense, and sense forsook my brain.Again my eyes unclosed, and ’mid the stars,Familiar faces of the telescope,We sped, while on the last confines of space,The City lay with golden halo girt.The systems passed, we neared old homelike Earth;And far enough to take a hemisphereAt single glance, we paused. The little globeWas puffing on, like Kepler’s idea-beast,With breath like tides, and echo sounds of life;Thus trundling on its journey round the sunWhile o’er its back swarmed men the parasites.As rustic lad, who visits some great town,Returns ashamed of humble country home,So I now blushed to own the world I’d thoughtWas once so great.The Angel pointed down,And said, “Behold the vast domains of Earth!Behold the wondrous works of man, that callsHimself the measure of the Universe!Those gleaming threads are rivers, and the poolsHis boundless oceans. Those slow-gliding dotsThe gallant ships, in which he braves the stormsThe largest white one, see, is laboring nowBeneath a cloud, your hand from here might span;What tiny tossings, like a jasmine’s bloomThat drifts along the ripples of a brook!Now on the wave, now ’neath it, now ’tis gone;The pool hath gulfed it like a flake of snow.See, there are railroad lines, what works of art!Thou canst not see the blackened threadlike tracks,But thou mayst see the thundering train, that creepsAcross the landscape like a score of antsWell laden, tandem, crawl across the floor.’Twill take a day to reach yon smoky patchOf pebbles! ’Tis a great metropolis!Where Man is proud in power and lasting strength;Where Art hath budded into perfect bloom,Where towering domes defy the touch of Time,And rock-ribbed structures reck not of his scytheOn every side, proclaimed Creation’s lord,Poor flattered Man the title proudly takes—One little gap of Earth, and not a spireWould lift its gilded vane; the very dustWould never rise above the chasm’s mouth.And mark yon crowd outside the city’s bounds,They hail Man’s triumph over Nature’s laws;He conquers gravity, and dares to fly!The speck-like globe slow rises in the air,While all the throng below shout, “God-like Man!”How pitiful! The flag-decked car but dragsIts way, a finger’s breadth above their heads,And falls, a few leagues off, into the sea;When ships must rescue Man, the king of air!“He soon will touch the stars,” enthusiasts cry;His highest flights ne’er reach the mountain-top,That lifts its mole-hill head above the plain.What different views above and underneath!From one, the silken pear cleaves through the cloud,And floats, beyond your vision, in the blue,And franchised Man no longer wears Earth’s chain;The other sees him drifting o’er the ground,Beneath the level of the hills around,The captive still of watchful gravity.Upon yon strip of land, two insect swarmsAre drawn up, front to front, in serried lines;These are the armies, ’neath whose trampling treadThe very Earth doth tremble, now they joinIn dreadful conflict. From the battling ranksLeap tiny bits of flame, and puffs of smoke,Where thundering cannon belch their carnage forth;The heated missile cleaves its sparkling way,The screaming shell its smoke-traced curve; the swordGleams redly with the varnish of its blood,The bayonets like ripples on a lake.How palsied every arm, how still each heart!If one discharge of Heaven’s artillery roaredAbove their heads—not that faint mutter thouPerchance hast heard from some electric cloud,But when a meteor curves immensity,And bursts in glittering fragments that would dashThy world an atom from their path. But GodHath thrown the blanket of His atmosphereAround the Earth, and shield, it from the jarOf pealing salvos, that reverberateThrough Heaven’s illimitable dome.Yet thou,The meanest of thy race of worms, hast daredTo question God’s designs. Know then that HeOrdains that all, His glory shall work out.The coral architect beneath the waveDoth magnify Him, as the burning sunThat lights a thousand worlds. His power directsThe mechanism of a Universe,Whose vastness thou hast been allowed to see,And yet the mottled sparrow in the hedgeFalls not without His notice. MagnitudeIs not the seal of power, though man thinks so;The least brown feather of the sparrow’s wing,In adaptation to its end displaysGod’s wisdom, as the ocean. HarmonyIs Heaven’s watchword, key to all designs.A tendency towards perfection’s endPervades Creation; to this perfect end,The polity Divine is leading Earth.Endowed with reason, Man, perforce, is free;And God, forseeing how he’ll freely act,Adjusts all circumstance accordingly.The order of this sequence, Man doth learnIn part; adapts himself to these fixed laws;And thus is formed a general harmony.Although the individual may oppose,His forseen freedom, acting in a netOf circumstance, secures the wished-for end.The bloodiest wars are sources of great good,Invasive floods rouse national energies,Or, mingling, form a greater people still;Hume’s skepticism foils its own design,And rouses lusty champions of the Truth,Who build its walls far stronger than before.Poor sordid Man! like all your gold-slave race,You deem wealth happiness. Hence, all your doubtsAbout God’s providence are based on gold.The wicked have it, and the righteous not.What you assert is oftenest reversed,And in a census of the world, you’d findThe good, in every land, the wealthiest.But Earth is not the bar where Man is judged;But only where free-will and circumstanceMay join in general progress. Gold is good!Then good depends on use of circumstance,And not on moral merit. Well ’tis so!For were the righteous only blessed, all menWould righteousness pursue, from sordid aims,—The most devout, who love their money best;And thus good actions’ essence would be lost,That they be done for good, within itself,And not for benefit to be conferred.Then for your doubts about the righteous poor;A certain law is fixed for general good,—Some actions yield a gain and some a loss.A wicked man may use the first, and gain,A righteous man may use the last, and lose;The wicked does not gain by wickedness,But by compliance with this natural law.The righteous, still as righteous, might have gainedBy different course of conduct, had he known;But his condition now, can but be changedBy special miracle; but miracles,In favor of the righteous, would destroyAll strife for good as good.Their compensation in another world;The poor may findAnd even here, in consciousness of right,In surety of Heav’n, and peace of mind.And in the case you’ve stated, like all thoseWho talk as you have done, you overdraw,And color more with Fancy than with Truth.You’ll find no widow, perfect in her trust,As you’ve described, who is so destitute.Go search the lanes and alleys; where you findThe greatest squalor, there is greatest crime;For poverty is oftenest but a nameFor reckless vice, and vile depravity.Your case is but exception to the rule,And not the rule, of Providence. To giveThe righteous, only, wealth and worldly storeWould take away Man’s freedom, and all good.But I will answer in your folly’s mode.The justice, then, of Nature’s laws you doubt,Forgetting they are fixed for general good,And not for individual. These laws,In their effects, you praise as very good;Yet, in their causes, call the most unjust.The fertile fields, with grain for man’s support,Are nourished by a miasmatic air,That, sickening but a few, feeds all the world.While, were the air all pure, a few were well,And millions starving. In the tropics, too,The scenes you deprecate, themselves but causeThe very beauties you admire. Unjust,You would enjoy effects without a cause.The goods of Nature often take their riseFrom what to man proves evil. For the goods,He makes his mind to meet the evils; thenCan he complain, or think it hard to bear?But Nature’s dealings towards Man are just.He knows that he is free, and Nature not;If he opposes Nature’s laws and falls,Is Nature to be blamed? The widow’s cotIs frail; the laws of general good requireA storm; it comes, and shattered falls the cot.Should God have saved it by a miracle,Then all His people could demand the same,And Earth would soon become the bar of God,God may exert a special providence,But Man may not detect it, as the ruleInvariable of life, and still be free;For he were thus compelled to seek the good.Then Nature, over Man, holds not a tyranny,But keeps the perfect pandect of her laws,And Man is free to obey them, or oppose.Like shallow-thoughted reasoners of Earth,You make assertions without slightest proof,Or faintest shade of truth. Your thesis, this:God marks with disapproval all the good,And blesses all the evil with His smile.Entirely false in every case! The goodAre ever happiest, in peace of mind,In ease of conscience, and the hope of Heaven.The wicked may be even rich, but wealthAnd happiness are far from synonyms.Is happiness the child of circumstance,Or is it not the offspring of the mind?And if the mind be tranquil and serene,Does happiness not follow everywhere?The cause of doubt in you, and many more,Is that the thousands who profess the good,Are ever mourning their unhappy lot,And sighing o’er the gloomy, narrow way;The tribulation of the promise read,Without its good cheer context. These are theyWho stamp with misery’s blackest seal, a lifeOf righteousness. By these you cannot judge,For they are not what they profess, and wouldBe miserable in Heaven, unless changed.But take the truly good, one who’s contentTo take whate’er befalls, submissively;Who feels assured that all works for the best;Take him, in all conditions, rich or poor,In sickness or in health, in pain or ease;Compare your happy wicked, with his gold,’Twill not require a moment to decideWhich one is happier!Again, you askWhy Man was not created happy, and kept so?His very freedom and intelligencePrevents a forcèd happiness. The endsOf all Creation would be marred, and ManLose personality. A happinessMade universal, asks moralityThat’s universally compelled; and lostIs all the scheme of virtue and reward.Man, forced to action would degenerateInto a listless, lifeless thing; the worldLose all its fine machinery of thoughtCombined with action. Beautiful varietyCould not exist, dull sameness would be life.But Man is placed, with free intelligence,Amid surroundings from which he may cullA happiness intense, whate’er their nature be.If bright, the consciousness they are deserved;If gloomy, sweet reflections that they drapeA future all the brighter for their gloom.But Man, within himself, your puzzle proves;And not to you alone, for Angel wingsHave hovered o’er your globe, and Angel mindsPeered curiously into his soul, to learnIts mysteries, in vain. The Mind SupremeThat formed the soul, alone can understandIts wondrous depths. ’Tis not surprising thenThat Man has tried in vain to know himself.His mind, compared with his body, seems so great,He deems its power unlimited. He findsIt weak, before the barriers of thought,That gird it, mountain high, on every side.No path can he pursue that’s infinite.And few exist, that do not thither lead.Hence all the vagaries that have obtainedAmong your race. The doubt of everything,Is only too far tracing of a thoughtInto absurdity intense. If youDeem all the world effect upon yourself,A principle of fairness would demandThat you accord the right to other men.The question then arises, who is heThat really does exist, and all the restHis ideas? Sure your neighbor has the rightTo claim the honor, just as well as you!Hume’s foolish thought, extended to its length,Will answer not a single end of life,And terminates in nonsense none believe.The conflict of the mental powers defeatsYour inquiries. You cannot reconcileThe unruled circumstance, with Man’s free-willYou deem the motive free, and Man its slave;As if the motive, unintelligent,Could have a freedom, or a slavery!You make the motive to exist within the mind,When it, perforce, must be without. You getThe unruled motive from the circumstance,When this itself must act upon the mind,And iffreemotives rise within the mind,They are apart, and thereforemindis free.And what you deemed a motive to the mind,Was mental action, and its modes of thought.The motive is confined to circumstance,And mind the circumstance can oft control,And even when it cannot, acts at will.The mind may to a kingdom be compared,Where Reason occupies the throne. BeneathIts scepter bow, in perfect vassalage,The faculties, desires, and appetites.These then are acted on by motive powers,And straight report the action to their king,Who does impartially decide for each.The unruled motive is without the mind,And forms no part of it, although the parts,Receiving motive action, so are called.Thus when you hunger, the desire of food,Confined to mind, is not a motive power;But urged by motive bodily demand,It tells the need to Reason, who decides.Thus when you pare your peach, the tempting fruitAnd fleshly need, move on the appetite,Who begs the Reason for consent to eat;Your friend’s opinion of your self-control,Is motive to Desire of esteem,Who begs the Reason to refuse consent.The Reason, then, like righteous judge, decreesIn favor of that one, more strongly shown;And feels a perfect freedom in its choice.’Tis most unfair to wait the action’s end,Then cry, the mind was forced to choose this act;But choice is Reason’s free decree. SometimesThe Reason errs, and evil then ensues;But Reason, now more conscious that ’tis free,Regrets it had not acted otherwise.By knowing what your reason deems the best,You judge how other men will act. You learn,By intercourse, what they permit to changeThe Reason’s sentence. So, while with a friend,You show your wealth, because you know he’s free,And can, and will, resist impulse to crime.Were he not free, you’d dare not go aloneWith him, for, any moment, might ariseA motive irresistible, and heWould kill and rob, because that motive’s slave.Were he not free, you were no more secure,In pleasant parlance, than on desert isle.The laws are made for man, alone, as free.For, otherwise, the motives they presentWere blind attempts so coincide with Fate.They would complete the gross absurdity,Of Man collective governing himself,And therefore free, while individualsAre helpless slaves of motives they but aidTo furnish.Fate, as held in fullest form,Yourself has proved the theory of fools;For were it true, a blind passivityWere Man’s perfection on the Earth. CompareThe two; Free-will as held, whate’er their faith,By every one, in daily practices;A world of harmony, for very warsYield good; a mechanism complicate,That even Angels, wondering at, admire;A world, whose wondrous progress is maintainedBy practical belief in liberty.And on the other hand, behold a worldOf universal inactivity!Its millions starving for delinquent Fate;—I doubt your faith would last till dinner-time,A morning’s lapse would change a hungry globeTo firm belief in free-will work for food.With many, God’s foreknowledge binds free-will;He knows the future, how each man will act,And man can never change from what God knows.They reason thus, that prescience is decree,And what God knows will happen, must take place.That God may know the future offree-willI prove by this. Suppose two worlds alike,And governed by two Gods. Each one can see,And foresee all transpires in both the worlds,Yet each o’er th’ other’s world exerts no power.A man in one does wrong; the other GodMay have foreseen the action for an age,Yet had not slightest power to cause or stop.Does his foreknowledge qualify the act?If thus you can suppose, why not believe,When errors flow from opposite belief?God in the future stands, and waits for man,Who works the present, only gift of Time.There is no future save in God’s own mind.Man’s future means continued present time;God’s future is but present time to Him,In which He lives, not will live when it comes.Man’s acts He sees as done, not to be done.And God compels not more than Man does Man,Who sees his fellow’s deeds, not causes them.Man only knows Man’s present acts; but GodThe future sees, as present to His mind.To end with perfect proof, you know you’re free.This all the world attests, and each believes.How subtle soe’er may his reasoning be,He contradicts it throughout all his life;And all his plans, and all the right and wrongOf self and friends he bases on free-will.If disbelief no inconvenience prove,Few men believe what is not understood;And yet the most familiar things of lifeAre far beyond their comprehensions’ power.Who understands the turning of the foodTo sinew, muscle, blood, and bone? yet whoWill starve because he knows not how ’tis done?Who understands the mystery of birth,And when and where the soul originates?And yet a million mothers bend, to-day,O’er tender babes, and know that they exist;A billion people know they once were born.Who understands the mystery of death,And how the soul is severed from its clay?Yet who has not wept o’er departed ones,Received the dying clasp, the dying look,And known, full well, Death’s bitter, bitter truth?None comprehends the movement of a limb,Yet many boast the powers of their’s might.Then why doubt freedom of the will, when life,In every phase, but proves its certain truth?The edifice of shallow theoristsBefore the sweeping blade of practice falls.Your dive into the heart yields folly’s fruit;The selfish theory, carried to its end,Makes wrong of right, and overturns the world.And strong it is in seeming; for the self,In human conduct, plays important part.But ’tis not action’s only source, nor dimsThe quality of every action’s worth.’Tis true that Man exists in self alone,And in himself feels pain or pleasure. True,An instinct teaches to avoid the one,And seek the other; true, that every act,How small soe’er, gives pleasure or gives pain.Yet thousand deeds are done without regardTo one or other, or effect on Self.Howe’er an action may affect the Self,If he that acts has not a thought of it,The action is not selfish. You appealTo Man, and so will I appeal to you.You find a helpless brute, with broken limb,Upon the roadside, moaning out its pain.Now, though to aid will surely pleasure give,And to neglect will cause remorseful pain,Is there a single thought of this, when you,With kindest hand, bind up the swollen bruise,And hold the grateful water to its mouth?Is not each thought to ease the sufferer’s pain?Is not the Self first found, when on your wayYou go, with lighter heart, for kindness done?And while you think with pleasure on the deed,Would you not feel despised in your own eyes,If consciousness revealed ’twas done for Self?But should you say that Self was thus concealed,And still evoked the deed, the argumentThe same; if Self was out of thought, the deedHad other source.In all, you thus mistakeThe deed’s effect, unthought of, for its source.God, in His wisdom, hath affixed to goodPerformed, a pleasure, and to evil, pain.But selfish actions are not good, you’ve said,And therefore cannot slightest pleasure yield.Here, then, your system contradicts itself;All actions emanate from love of Self,To find the highest pleasure for that Self;And yet the pleasure’s lost by very search;What good soe’er apparently is sought,The consciousness of selfish aims destroys.And here is wisdom manifest. When SelfWould seek the good, for pleasure to the Self,The pleasure is not found; but when it seeksThe good alone, true pleasure is conferred.I mean the Self of soul, not Self of flesh;For pleasure to the sense, to be attainedIs sought; these two are mingled intricate(And hard to separate), in thousand ways.But when Man’s higher Self would seek its good,It must forget the Self. In every caseYou instanced, Self of soul must be unthought,For pleasure will not come at call of Self.Your gambler none will doubt has selfish ends;Not so the preacher, for his pleasure sought,Would ne’er be found; it must be out of thought.His burning eloquence, his pastoral care,Can not proceed from any love of Self,For Self would suffer, when it knew their source;But as he acts from love of good as good,The Self is happy. When he ascertainsThat some have died in sin through his neglect,The Self is grieved, not that it was uncared,For care of Self would not allay the pain,But that a duty had not been performed;That good had been neglected, as a good.The gambler’s object may be highest goodFor Self, according to his estimate;The preacher seeks a good, but not for Self;When Self appears, the good to evil turns.Nor is the mystic selfish in his cave,Save that he buries talents in himself,That might avail for good to other men;But all his mind is bent on pleasing God,His only thought of Self is for its pain;And this he deems acceptable to Heaven.You can not judge by your analysis,But by what passes in the actor’s mind.One surely then could not be selfish termed,Who only lived to mortify the Self,Howe’er mistaken may his conduct be.Nor is the man, who gives his wealth away,If from right principles he gives. ’Tis true,He finds a pleasure in the deed when done,But if to gain that pleasure he has given,It turns to gall and wormwood in his grasp.If two men matches light, and know full well,If one is dropped, a house will be consumed,He is the most guilty that allows its fall.The miser, then, who knows he does a wrong,Is by that knowledge rendered criminal.“The quality of actions must be judged”From their intents, that often differ wide;The man who shoots his friend by accidentHas no intent, and therefore does no wrong;But he who murders does a score of wrongs,—A score of basest motives prompt the deed,All centred in the Self. The Christian’s workMust, from its very nature, have no Self,Or it becomes unchristian. Man can judge,Not from effect, but motives ascertainedBy inference, and experience. The lawIs formed hereon, and modified by years.Time teaches men that punishment will stop,And only punishment, the spread of crime.Instinct and Nature’s order teaches youThat pain must follow wrong. A man commitsA crime; if left unpunished, he repeats;And others, seeing his security,Will do as he has done. So all mankindWould hasten on to lawlessness and ruin.But law, for real wrong inflicts a wrong,Which would be just did it no farther go;But it is proved expedient, inasmuchAs it prevents continued crime. Then deathBy law can not be murder termed, since goodIn aim and end, without malicious thought.Thus good to many flows from wrong to one(If that may wrong be termed that takes the rightsBy conduct forfeited), who should receive,Though none reaped benefit. For many’s good,The law is made, yet never does a wrongTo individuals, unless deserved.Throughout your reas’ning, like all Earthly minds,When dataless, essaying hidden truths,You wander blindly in conjecture’s field,And if you find the truth, it is a chance.You fain would raise a stone of skepticism,By granting souls immortal unto beasts;You prove your pointer must possess a soul,And by your argument, the trees have souls;For when an oak has fallen, every twigMay still be there, and something, life, be gone.A chair, a table, anything you see,Possesses something, not of any parts,But that to which the parts are said, belong,Then, one by one, take all the parts away,The something called the table must exist,For ’twas not in a part, nor is removed.The mind of beasts exists but through their flesh,And is developed subject to its laws,And flesh is the condition of their life.When flesh dissolves, the mind disintegrates,And ceases to exist. Man feels within,The consciousness of soul, that would surviveThough flesh were torn to shreds upon the wheel.The parts of soul that live alone through flesh,Must perish with it in the hour of death.But having postulated Self, as sourceOf human conduct, you compel the actsTo fit your theory. You change effectFor cause. Where’er a moral pleasure’s found,You judge that for its gain the deed was done;As if the pleasure could be gained by search!That Self does enter largely into inner lifeIs very plain, for everything affects,In some way, Self; but does the mind regardEffect, or is its object something else?The appetites, affections, and desires,You make of selfish origin, yet knowThat is not selfish, which alone affects;But acting with a reference to effect.The appetites are instincts; as you breathe,You hunger, thirst, in helplessness. Not Self,But food or drink, the object of your thought.And even while the taste is in your mouth,The mind dwells on the taste, not on the Self.Desires are partly selfish in their mode;Desire of knowledge, seeking honor’s meed,Is selfish; led by curiosity,’Tis not more selfish than an appetite.Desire of power, esteem, and wide-spread fame,Is selfish, when the thought of their effectOn Self shapes out the conduct; when desiredFor their own sake, unselfish.On the listAffections terminate, you falsely railThe mother, and the lover; both sincere,And both without a thought of selfish aim.’Tis no reproach to say the mother’s love,In fervid instinct, and development,Is like the cow’s, that God in wisdom gives.No love so pure as that which moves the cowTo hover round her young, to bear the blowsImpatient hunger deals the udder drained,To smooth with loving tongue the tender coat,Or meet the playful forehead with her own;With threatening horn, to guard approach of harm;And watch, with ceaseless care, the charge in sleep.Her careful love continues, till the calfHas grown beyond her need, and ceases then.A mother loves because it is her child:This is the surest reason you could give.Th’ affection is spontaneous in her breast,But fed and strengthened by his life, if good.The opposites to love you named, affectHer love, by not an injury done to Self,But by their evil, which her soul abhors.Her son’s antagonism’s not to her,But to the good she loves. Her heart withdrawsIts twining tendrils from unworthiness.As usual, you select supposed effects,And then assume their causes. Could you seeThe mother’s heart, you’d find the loss of loveCaused not by wrong to her, but wrong abstractDeveloped in the concrete deeds of crime.Her love is governed by a moral sense,Or idea of the good; the people’s thoughtAbout herself comes in as after-part.Bad treatment to herself, although it pain,Deals not a fatal blow to love, exceptAs showing lack of principle in him.And so your lover is not hurt in Self,But moral sense. The loved one’s perfidy,And not her ridicule, beheads your love;Her stunning words were playful pleasantry,Did they not show the baseness of the heart.Indeed, to turn your reasoning on yourself,Her manner even towards you has not changed,And were you present, she would still seem yours;Her eaves-dropped words do not affect the Self,Save as they show her falsity of heart.And tossing on your pillow, through the night,The crushing thought of wrecked integrityGives deeper pain than all her ridicule.And Self, though pained at thought of being duped,Enjoys relief in thought of its escape.To show that Love is built on higher groundsThan paltry good for Self; that it must have,As corner-stone, a percept of the good,Existing in the object loved, supposeYou’re on the topmost height of wildest love,Your arm around her, and your lingering kissUpon her lips; and Self is king of love.She, nestling on your shoulder, finds ’tis wrong,That love, however true, may grow too warm;That every kiss, however pure, abstractsSome little part from maiden modesty,And steals a pebble from her honor’s wallAnd rising with the firm resolve, says, “Cease,Unwind your arm, restrain your fervid lips;It may be wrong, and right is surely safe!”Now though the Self is bitterly denied,The rapturous clasp and tender kiss forbid,Is not your love increased a thousand-fold?Do not you feel intensely gratifiedAt this assurance of her moral worth?And would you, for the world, breath aught to causeHer pain, or least regret for her resolve?How firm your trust, how sweet your confidence!You know ’twas not capricious prudery,For your caresses had been oft received;Nor was it sly hypocrisy to winYour heart, for that was long since hers. No thought,But spotless purity, inspired the act;And you are happy, though the Self’s denied.
To leave all these, and find a perfect life,To know that Heaven is sure eternally,That sickness ne’er again will waste our frame,That death shall never come again. The mindIn perfect peace and happiness; the hiddenSpread out before its ken; a sweet contentPervading every thought, because “just now”Yields happiness as great as future years;Because Life’s highest end is now attained.The consciousness of merit, with rewardSurpassing far all we deserved. A HomeOf perfect peace, no envious spite or hateWithin its sacred walls, but all pure loveTowards our fellows, gratitude to God,A gratitude that all Eternal lifeWill not suffice to prove. ’Twere joy enoughTo lie before the Throne, and ever cryOur thanks for mercy so supreme! And oh!The vast tranquillity of those who feelThat life on Earth is ended, Heaven gained!The Angel marked my gaze of rapt delight,And said, “Wouldst thou go nearer?” Swift as lightWe moved towards the City. On the steps,In dreamy ecstasy, I lay, afraid to move,Lest all the panorama should dissolve.I cared not that I was unfit to go,I cared not that I must return to Earth;I felt one moment in the Golden wallsWas worth a dungeon’s chains “threescore and ten.”The glory of its music, and its light,Grew too intense, and sense forsook my brain.Again my eyes unclosed, and ’mid the stars,Familiar faces of the telescope,We sped, while on the last confines of space,The City lay with golden halo girt.The systems passed, we neared old homelike Earth;And far enough to take a hemisphereAt single glance, we paused. The little globeWas puffing on, like Kepler’s idea-beast,With breath like tides, and echo sounds of life;Thus trundling on its journey round the sunWhile o’er its back swarmed men the parasites.As rustic lad, who visits some great town,Returns ashamed of humble country home,So I now blushed to own the world I’d thoughtWas once so great.The Angel pointed down,And said, “Behold the vast domains of Earth!Behold the wondrous works of man, that callsHimself the measure of the Universe!Those gleaming threads are rivers, and the poolsHis boundless oceans. Those slow-gliding dotsThe gallant ships, in which he braves the stormsThe largest white one, see, is laboring nowBeneath a cloud, your hand from here might span;What tiny tossings, like a jasmine’s bloomThat drifts along the ripples of a brook!Now on the wave, now ’neath it, now ’tis gone;The pool hath gulfed it like a flake of snow.See, there are railroad lines, what works of art!Thou canst not see the blackened threadlike tracks,But thou mayst see the thundering train, that creepsAcross the landscape like a score of antsWell laden, tandem, crawl across the floor.’Twill take a day to reach yon smoky patchOf pebbles! ’Tis a great metropolis!Where Man is proud in power and lasting strength;Where Art hath budded into perfect bloom,Where towering domes defy the touch of Time,And rock-ribbed structures reck not of his scytheOn every side, proclaimed Creation’s lord,Poor flattered Man the title proudly takes—One little gap of Earth, and not a spireWould lift its gilded vane; the very dustWould never rise above the chasm’s mouth.And mark yon crowd outside the city’s bounds,They hail Man’s triumph over Nature’s laws;He conquers gravity, and dares to fly!The speck-like globe slow rises in the air,While all the throng below shout, “God-like Man!”How pitiful! The flag-decked car but dragsIts way, a finger’s breadth above their heads,And falls, a few leagues off, into the sea;When ships must rescue Man, the king of air!“He soon will touch the stars,” enthusiasts cry;His highest flights ne’er reach the mountain-top,That lifts its mole-hill head above the plain.What different views above and underneath!From one, the silken pear cleaves through the cloud,And floats, beyond your vision, in the blue,And franchised Man no longer wears Earth’s chain;The other sees him drifting o’er the ground,Beneath the level of the hills around,The captive still of watchful gravity.Upon yon strip of land, two insect swarmsAre drawn up, front to front, in serried lines;These are the armies, ’neath whose trampling treadThe very Earth doth tremble, now they joinIn dreadful conflict. From the battling ranksLeap tiny bits of flame, and puffs of smoke,Where thundering cannon belch their carnage forth;The heated missile cleaves its sparkling way,The screaming shell its smoke-traced curve; the swordGleams redly with the varnish of its blood,The bayonets like ripples on a lake.How palsied every arm, how still each heart!If one discharge of Heaven’s artillery roaredAbove their heads—not that faint mutter thouPerchance hast heard from some electric cloud,But when a meteor curves immensity,And bursts in glittering fragments that would dashThy world an atom from their path. But GodHath thrown the blanket of His atmosphereAround the Earth, and shield, it from the jarOf pealing salvos, that reverberateThrough Heaven’s illimitable dome.Yet thou,The meanest of thy race of worms, hast daredTo question God’s designs. Know then that HeOrdains that all, His glory shall work out.The coral architect beneath the waveDoth magnify Him, as the burning sunThat lights a thousand worlds. His power directsThe mechanism of a Universe,Whose vastness thou hast been allowed to see,And yet the mottled sparrow in the hedgeFalls not without His notice. MagnitudeIs not the seal of power, though man thinks so;The least brown feather of the sparrow’s wing,In adaptation to its end displaysGod’s wisdom, as the ocean. HarmonyIs Heaven’s watchword, key to all designs.A tendency towards perfection’s endPervades Creation; to this perfect end,The polity Divine is leading Earth.Endowed with reason, Man, perforce, is free;And God, forseeing how he’ll freely act,Adjusts all circumstance accordingly.The order of this sequence, Man doth learnIn part; adapts himself to these fixed laws;And thus is formed a general harmony.Although the individual may oppose,His forseen freedom, acting in a netOf circumstance, secures the wished-for end.The bloodiest wars are sources of great good,Invasive floods rouse national energies,Or, mingling, form a greater people still;Hume’s skepticism foils its own design,And rouses lusty champions of the Truth,Who build its walls far stronger than before.Poor sordid Man! like all your gold-slave race,You deem wealth happiness. Hence, all your doubtsAbout God’s providence are based on gold.The wicked have it, and the righteous not.What you assert is oftenest reversed,And in a census of the world, you’d findThe good, in every land, the wealthiest.But Earth is not the bar where Man is judged;But only where free-will and circumstanceMay join in general progress. Gold is good!Then good depends on use of circumstance,And not on moral merit. Well ’tis so!For were the righteous only blessed, all menWould righteousness pursue, from sordid aims,—The most devout, who love their money best;And thus good actions’ essence would be lost,That they be done for good, within itself,And not for benefit to be conferred.Then for your doubts about the righteous poor;A certain law is fixed for general good,—Some actions yield a gain and some a loss.A wicked man may use the first, and gain,A righteous man may use the last, and lose;The wicked does not gain by wickedness,But by compliance with this natural law.The righteous, still as righteous, might have gainedBy different course of conduct, had he known;But his condition now, can but be changedBy special miracle; but miracles,In favor of the righteous, would destroyAll strife for good as good.Their compensation in another world;The poor may findAnd even here, in consciousness of right,In surety of Heav’n, and peace of mind.And in the case you’ve stated, like all thoseWho talk as you have done, you overdraw,And color more with Fancy than with Truth.You’ll find no widow, perfect in her trust,As you’ve described, who is so destitute.Go search the lanes and alleys; where you findThe greatest squalor, there is greatest crime;For poverty is oftenest but a nameFor reckless vice, and vile depravity.Your case is but exception to the rule,And not the rule, of Providence. To giveThe righteous, only, wealth and worldly storeWould take away Man’s freedom, and all good.But I will answer in your folly’s mode.The justice, then, of Nature’s laws you doubt,Forgetting they are fixed for general good,And not for individual. These laws,In their effects, you praise as very good;Yet, in their causes, call the most unjust.The fertile fields, with grain for man’s support,Are nourished by a miasmatic air,That, sickening but a few, feeds all the world.While, were the air all pure, a few were well,And millions starving. In the tropics, too,The scenes you deprecate, themselves but causeThe very beauties you admire. Unjust,You would enjoy effects without a cause.The goods of Nature often take their riseFrom what to man proves evil. For the goods,He makes his mind to meet the evils; thenCan he complain, or think it hard to bear?But Nature’s dealings towards Man are just.He knows that he is free, and Nature not;If he opposes Nature’s laws and falls,Is Nature to be blamed? The widow’s cotIs frail; the laws of general good requireA storm; it comes, and shattered falls the cot.Should God have saved it by a miracle,Then all His people could demand the same,And Earth would soon become the bar of God,God may exert a special providence,But Man may not detect it, as the ruleInvariable of life, and still be free;For he were thus compelled to seek the good.Then Nature, over Man, holds not a tyranny,But keeps the perfect pandect of her laws,And Man is free to obey them, or oppose.Like shallow-thoughted reasoners of Earth,You make assertions without slightest proof,Or faintest shade of truth. Your thesis, this:God marks with disapproval all the good,And blesses all the evil with His smile.Entirely false in every case! The goodAre ever happiest, in peace of mind,In ease of conscience, and the hope of Heaven.The wicked may be even rich, but wealthAnd happiness are far from synonyms.Is happiness the child of circumstance,Or is it not the offspring of the mind?And if the mind be tranquil and serene,Does happiness not follow everywhere?The cause of doubt in you, and many more,Is that the thousands who profess the good,Are ever mourning their unhappy lot,And sighing o’er the gloomy, narrow way;The tribulation of the promise read,Without its good cheer context. These are theyWho stamp with misery’s blackest seal, a lifeOf righteousness. By these you cannot judge,For they are not what they profess, and wouldBe miserable in Heaven, unless changed.But take the truly good, one who’s contentTo take whate’er befalls, submissively;Who feels assured that all works for the best;Take him, in all conditions, rich or poor,In sickness or in health, in pain or ease;Compare your happy wicked, with his gold,’Twill not require a moment to decideWhich one is happier!Again, you askWhy Man was not created happy, and kept so?His very freedom and intelligencePrevents a forcèd happiness. The endsOf all Creation would be marred, and ManLose personality. A happinessMade universal, asks moralityThat’s universally compelled; and lostIs all the scheme of virtue and reward.Man, forced to action would degenerateInto a listless, lifeless thing; the worldLose all its fine machinery of thoughtCombined with action. Beautiful varietyCould not exist, dull sameness would be life.But Man is placed, with free intelligence,Amid surroundings from which he may cullA happiness intense, whate’er their nature be.If bright, the consciousness they are deserved;If gloomy, sweet reflections that they drapeA future all the brighter for their gloom.But Man, within himself, your puzzle proves;And not to you alone, for Angel wingsHave hovered o’er your globe, and Angel mindsPeered curiously into his soul, to learnIts mysteries, in vain. The Mind SupremeThat formed the soul, alone can understandIts wondrous depths. ’Tis not surprising thenThat Man has tried in vain to know himself.His mind, compared with his body, seems so great,He deems its power unlimited. He findsIt weak, before the barriers of thought,That gird it, mountain high, on every side.No path can he pursue that’s infinite.And few exist, that do not thither lead.Hence all the vagaries that have obtainedAmong your race. The doubt of everything,Is only too far tracing of a thoughtInto absurdity intense. If youDeem all the world effect upon yourself,A principle of fairness would demandThat you accord the right to other men.The question then arises, who is heThat really does exist, and all the restHis ideas? Sure your neighbor has the rightTo claim the honor, just as well as you!Hume’s foolish thought, extended to its length,Will answer not a single end of life,And terminates in nonsense none believe.The conflict of the mental powers defeatsYour inquiries. You cannot reconcileThe unruled circumstance, with Man’s free-willYou deem the motive free, and Man its slave;As if the motive, unintelligent,Could have a freedom, or a slavery!You make the motive to exist within the mind,When it, perforce, must be without. You getThe unruled motive from the circumstance,When this itself must act upon the mind,And iffreemotives rise within the mind,They are apart, and thereforemindis free.And what you deemed a motive to the mind,Was mental action, and its modes of thought.The motive is confined to circumstance,And mind the circumstance can oft control,And even when it cannot, acts at will.The mind may to a kingdom be compared,Where Reason occupies the throne. BeneathIts scepter bow, in perfect vassalage,The faculties, desires, and appetites.These then are acted on by motive powers,And straight report the action to their king,Who does impartially decide for each.The unruled motive is without the mind,And forms no part of it, although the parts,Receiving motive action, so are called.Thus when you hunger, the desire of food,Confined to mind, is not a motive power;But urged by motive bodily demand,It tells the need to Reason, who decides.Thus when you pare your peach, the tempting fruitAnd fleshly need, move on the appetite,Who begs the Reason for consent to eat;Your friend’s opinion of your self-control,Is motive to Desire of esteem,Who begs the Reason to refuse consent.The Reason, then, like righteous judge, decreesIn favor of that one, more strongly shown;And feels a perfect freedom in its choice.’Tis most unfair to wait the action’s end,Then cry, the mind was forced to choose this act;But choice is Reason’s free decree. SometimesThe Reason errs, and evil then ensues;But Reason, now more conscious that ’tis free,Regrets it had not acted otherwise.By knowing what your reason deems the best,You judge how other men will act. You learn,By intercourse, what they permit to changeThe Reason’s sentence. So, while with a friend,You show your wealth, because you know he’s free,And can, and will, resist impulse to crime.Were he not free, you’d dare not go aloneWith him, for, any moment, might ariseA motive irresistible, and heWould kill and rob, because that motive’s slave.Were he not free, you were no more secure,In pleasant parlance, than on desert isle.The laws are made for man, alone, as free.For, otherwise, the motives they presentWere blind attempts so coincide with Fate.They would complete the gross absurdity,Of Man collective governing himself,And therefore free, while individualsAre helpless slaves of motives they but aidTo furnish.Fate, as held in fullest form,Yourself has proved the theory of fools;For were it true, a blind passivityWere Man’s perfection on the Earth. CompareThe two; Free-will as held, whate’er their faith,By every one, in daily practices;A world of harmony, for very warsYield good; a mechanism complicate,That even Angels, wondering at, admire;A world, whose wondrous progress is maintainedBy practical belief in liberty.And on the other hand, behold a worldOf universal inactivity!Its millions starving for delinquent Fate;—I doubt your faith would last till dinner-time,A morning’s lapse would change a hungry globeTo firm belief in free-will work for food.With many, God’s foreknowledge binds free-will;He knows the future, how each man will act,And man can never change from what God knows.They reason thus, that prescience is decree,And what God knows will happen, must take place.That God may know the future offree-willI prove by this. Suppose two worlds alike,And governed by two Gods. Each one can see,And foresee all transpires in both the worlds,Yet each o’er th’ other’s world exerts no power.A man in one does wrong; the other GodMay have foreseen the action for an age,Yet had not slightest power to cause or stop.Does his foreknowledge qualify the act?If thus you can suppose, why not believe,When errors flow from opposite belief?God in the future stands, and waits for man,Who works the present, only gift of Time.There is no future save in God’s own mind.Man’s future means continued present time;God’s future is but present time to Him,In which He lives, not will live when it comes.Man’s acts He sees as done, not to be done.And God compels not more than Man does Man,Who sees his fellow’s deeds, not causes them.Man only knows Man’s present acts; but GodThe future sees, as present to His mind.To end with perfect proof, you know you’re free.This all the world attests, and each believes.How subtle soe’er may his reasoning be,He contradicts it throughout all his life;And all his plans, and all the right and wrongOf self and friends he bases on free-will.If disbelief no inconvenience prove,Few men believe what is not understood;And yet the most familiar things of lifeAre far beyond their comprehensions’ power.Who understands the turning of the foodTo sinew, muscle, blood, and bone? yet whoWill starve because he knows not how ’tis done?Who understands the mystery of birth,And when and where the soul originates?And yet a million mothers bend, to-day,O’er tender babes, and know that they exist;A billion people know they once were born.Who understands the mystery of death,And how the soul is severed from its clay?Yet who has not wept o’er departed ones,Received the dying clasp, the dying look,And known, full well, Death’s bitter, bitter truth?None comprehends the movement of a limb,Yet many boast the powers of their’s might.Then why doubt freedom of the will, when life,In every phase, but proves its certain truth?The edifice of shallow theoristsBefore the sweeping blade of practice falls.Your dive into the heart yields folly’s fruit;The selfish theory, carried to its end,Makes wrong of right, and overturns the world.And strong it is in seeming; for the self,In human conduct, plays important part.But ’tis not action’s only source, nor dimsThe quality of every action’s worth.’Tis true that Man exists in self alone,And in himself feels pain or pleasure. True,An instinct teaches to avoid the one,And seek the other; true, that every act,How small soe’er, gives pleasure or gives pain.Yet thousand deeds are done without regardTo one or other, or effect on Self.Howe’er an action may affect the Self,If he that acts has not a thought of it,The action is not selfish. You appealTo Man, and so will I appeal to you.You find a helpless brute, with broken limb,Upon the roadside, moaning out its pain.Now, though to aid will surely pleasure give,And to neglect will cause remorseful pain,Is there a single thought of this, when you,With kindest hand, bind up the swollen bruise,And hold the grateful water to its mouth?Is not each thought to ease the sufferer’s pain?Is not the Self first found, when on your wayYou go, with lighter heart, for kindness done?And while you think with pleasure on the deed,Would you not feel despised in your own eyes,If consciousness revealed ’twas done for Self?But should you say that Self was thus concealed,And still evoked the deed, the argumentThe same; if Self was out of thought, the deedHad other source.In all, you thus mistakeThe deed’s effect, unthought of, for its source.God, in His wisdom, hath affixed to goodPerformed, a pleasure, and to evil, pain.But selfish actions are not good, you’ve said,And therefore cannot slightest pleasure yield.Here, then, your system contradicts itself;All actions emanate from love of Self,To find the highest pleasure for that Self;And yet the pleasure’s lost by very search;What good soe’er apparently is sought,The consciousness of selfish aims destroys.And here is wisdom manifest. When SelfWould seek the good, for pleasure to the Self,The pleasure is not found; but when it seeksThe good alone, true pleasure is conferred.I mean the Self of soul, not Self of flesh;For pleasure to the sense, to be attainedIs sought; these two are mingled intricate(And hard to separate), in thousand ways.But when Man’s higher Self would seek its good,It must forget the Self. In every caseYou instanced, Self of soul must be unthought,For pleasure will not come at call of Self.Your gambler none will doubt has selfish ends;Not so the preacher, for his pleasure sought,Would ne’er be found; it must be out of thought.His burning eloquence, his pastoral care,Can not proceed from any love of Self,For Self would suffer, when it knew their source;But as he acts from love of good as good,The Self is happy. When he ascertainsThat some have died in sin through his neglect,The Self is grieved, not that it was uncared,For care of Self would not allay the pain,But that a duty had not been performed;That good had been neglected, as a good.The gambler’s object may be highest goodFor Self, according to his estimate;The preacher seeks a good, but not for Self;When Self appears, the good to evil turns.Nor is the mystic selfish in his cave,Save that he buries talents in himself,That might avail for good to other men;But all his mind is bent on pleasing God,His only thought of Self is for its pain;And this he deems acceptable to Heaven.You can not judge by your analysis,But by what passes in the actor’s mind.One surely then could not be selfish termed,Who only lived to mortify the Self,Howe’er mistaken may his conduct be.Nor is the man, who gives his wealth away,If from right principles he gives. ’Tis true,He finds a pleasure in the deed when done,But if to gain that pleasure he has given,It turns to gall and wormwood in his grasp.If two men matches light, and know full well,If one is dropped, a house will be consumed,He is the most guilty that allows its fall.The miser, then, who knows he does a wrong,Is by that knowledge rendered criminal.“The quality of actions must be judged”From their intents, that often differ wide;The man who shoots his friend by accidentHas no intent, and therefore does no wrong;But he who murders does a score of wrongs,—A score of basest motives prompt the deed,All centred in the Self. The Christian’s workMust, from its very nature, have no Self,Or it becomes unchristian. Man can judge,Not from effect, but motives ascertainedBy inference, and experience. The lawIs formed hereon, and modified by years.Time teaches men that punishment will stop,And only punishment, the spread of crime.Instinct and Nature’s order teaches youThat pain must follow wrong. A man commitsA crime; if left unpunished, he repeats;And others, seeing his security,Will do as he has done. So all mankindWould hasten on to lawlessness and ruin.But law, for real wrong inflicts a wrong,Which would be just did it no farther go;But it is proved expedient, inasmuchAs it prevents continued crime. Then deathBy law can not be murder termed, since goodIn aim and end, without malicious thought.Thus good to many flows from wrong to one(If that may wrong be termed that takes the rightsBy conduct forfeited), who should receive,Though none reaped benefit. For many’s good,The law is made, yet never does a wrongTo individuals, unless deserved.Throughout your reas’ning, like all Earthly minds,When dataless, essaying hidden truths,You wander blindly in conjecture’s field,And if you find the truth, it is a chance.You fain would raise a stone of skepticism,By granting souls immortal unto beasts;You prove your pointer must possess a soul,And by your argument, the trees have souls;For when an oak has fallen, every twigMay still be there, and something, life, be gone.A chair, a table, anything you see,Possesses something, not of any parts,But that to which the parts are said, belong,Then, one by one, take all the parts away,The something called the table must exist,For ’twas not in a part, nor is removed.The mind of beasts exists but through their flesh,And is developed subject to its laws,And flesh is the condition of their life.When flesh dissolves, the mind disintegrates,And ceases to exist. Man feels within,The consciousness of soul, that would surviveThough flesh were torn to shreds upon the wheel.The parts of soul that live alone through flesh,Must perish with it in the hour of death.But having postulated Self, as sourceOf human conduct, you compel the actsTo fit your theory. You change effectFor cause. Where’er a moral pleasure’s found,You judge that for its gain the deed was done;As if the pleasure could be gained by search!That Self does enter largely into inner lifeIs very plain, for everything affects,In some way, Self; but does the mind regardEffect, or is its object something else?The appetites, affections, and desires,You make of selfish origin, yet knowThat is not selfish, which alone affects;But acting with a reference to effect.The appetites are instincts; as you breathe,You hunger, thirst, in helplessness. Not Self,But food or drink, the object of your thought.And even while the taste is in your mouth,The mind dwells on the taste, not on the Self.Desires are partly selfish in their mode;Desire of knowledge, seeking honor’s meed,Is selfish; led by curiosity,’Tis not more selfish than an appetite.Desire of power, esteem, and wide-spread fame,Is selfish, when the thought of their effectOn Self shapes out the conduct; when desiredFor their own sake, unselfish.On the listAffections terminate, you falsely railThe mother, and the lover; both sincere,And both without a thought of selfish aim.’Tis no reproach to say the mother’s love,In fervid instinct, and development,Is like the cow’s, that God in wisdom gives.No love so pure as that which moves the cowTo hover round her young, to bear the blowsImpatient hunger deals the udder drained,To smooth with loving tongue the tender coat,Or meet the playful forehead with her own;With threatening horn, to guard approach of harm;And watch, with ceaseless care, the charge in sleep.Her careful love continues, till the calfHas grown beyond her need, and ceases then.A mother loves because it is her child:This is the surest reason you could give.Th’ affection is spontaneous in her breast,But fed and strengthened by his life, if good.The opposites to love you named, affectHer love, by not an injury done to Self,But by their evil, which her soul abhors.Her son’s antagonism’s not to her,But to the good she loves. Her heart withdrawsIts twining tendrils from unworthiness.As usual, you select supposed effects,And then assume their causes. Could you seeThe mother’s heart, you’d find the loss of loveCaused not by wrong to her, but wrong abstractDeveloped in the concrete deeds of crime.Her love is governed by a moral sense,Or idea of the good; the people’s thoughtAbout herself comes in as after-part.Bad treatment to herself, although it pain,Deals not a fatal blow to love, exceptAs showing lack of principle in him.And so your lover is not hurt in Self,But moral sense. The loved one’s perfidy,And not her ridicule, beheads your love;Her stunning words were playful pleasantry,Did they not show the baseness of the heart.Indeed, to turn your reasoning on yourself,Her manner even towards you has not changed,And were you present, she would still seem yours;Her eaves-dropped words do not affect the Self,Save as they show her falsity of heart.And tossing on your pillow, through the night,The crushing thought of wrecked integrityGives deeper pain than all her ridicule.And Self, though pained at thought of being duped,Enjoys relief in thought of its escape.To show that Love is built on higher groundsThan paltry good for Self; that it must have,As corner-stone, a percept of the good,Existing in the object loved, supposeYou’re on the topmost height of wildest love,Your arm around her, and your lingering kissUpon her lips; and Self is king of love.She, nestling on your shoulder, finds ’tis wrong,That love, however true, may grow too warm;That every kiss, however pure, abstractsSome little part from maiden modesty,And steals a pebble from her honor’s wallAnd rising with the firm resolve, says, “Cease,Unwind your arm, restrain your fervid lips;It may be wrong, and right is surely safe!”Now though the Self is bitterly denied,The rapturous clasp and tender kiss forbid,Is not your love increased a thousand-fold?Do not you feel intensely gratifiedAt this assurance of her moral worth?And would you, for the world, breath aught to causeHer pain, or least regret for her resolve?How firm your trust, how sweet your confidence!You know ’twas not capricious prudery,For your caresses had been oft received;Nor was it sly hypocrisy to winYour heart, for that was long since hers. No thought,But spotless purity, inspired the act;And you are happy, though the Self’s denied.
To leave all these, and find a perfect life,To know that Heaven is sure eternally,That sickness ne’er again will waste our frame,That death shall never come again. The mindIn perfect peace and happiness; the hiddenSpread out before its ken; a sweet contentPervading every thought, because “just now”Yields happiness as great as future years;Because Life’s highest end is now attained.The consciousness of merit, with rewardSurpassing far all we deserved. A HomeOf perfect peace, no envious spite or hateWithin its sacred walls, but all pure loveTowards our fellows, gratitude to God,A gratitude that all Eternal lifeWill not suffice to prove. ’Twere joy enoughTo lie before the Throne, and ever cryOur thanks for mercy so supreme! And oh!The vast tranquillity of those who feelThat life on Earth is ended, Heaven gained!The Angel marked my gaze of rapt delight,And said, “Wouldst thou go nearer?” Swift as lightWe moved towards the City. On the steps,In dreamy ecstasy, I lay, afraid to move,Lest all the panorama should dissolve.I cared not that I was unfit to go,I cared not that I must return to Earth;I felt one moment in the Golden wallsWas worth a dungeon’s chains “threescore and ten.”The glory of its music, and its light,Grew too intense, and sense forsook my brain.
Again my eyes unclosed, and ’mid the stars,Familiar faces of the telescope,We sped, while on the last confines of space,The City lay with golden halo girt.The systems passed, we neared old homelike Earth;And far enough to take a hemisphereAt single glance, we paused. The little globeWas puffing on, like Kepler’s idea-beast,With breath like tides, and echo sounds of life;Thus trundling on its journey round the sunWhile o’er its back swarmed men the parasites.As rustic lad, who visits some great town,Returns ashamed of humble country home,So I now blushed to own the world I’d thoughtWas once so great.The Angel pointed down,And said, “Behold the vast domains of Earth!Behold the wondrous works of man, that callsHimself the measure of the Universe!Those gleaming threads are rivers, and the poolsHis boundless oceans. Those slow-gliding dotsThe gallant ships, in which he braves the stormsThe largest white one, see, is laboring nowBeneath a cloud, your hand from here might span;What tiny tossings, like a jasmine’s bloomThat drifts along the ripples of a brook!Now on the wave, now ’neath it, now ’tis gone;The pool hath gulfed it like a flake of snow.See, there are railroad lines, what works of art!Thou canst not see the blackened threadlike tracks,But thou mayst see the thundering train, that creepsAcross the landscape like a score of antsWell laden, tandem, crawl across the floor.’Twill take a day to reach yon smoky patchOf pebbles! ’Tis a great metropolis!Where Man is proud in power and lasting strength;Where Art hath budded into perfect bloom,Where towering domes defy the touch of Time,And rock-ribbed structures reck not of his scytheOn every side, proclaimed Creation’s lord,Poor flattered Man the title proudly takes—One little gap of Earth, and not a spireWould lift its gilded vane; the very dustWould never rise above the chasm’s mouth.And mark yon crowd outside the city’s bounds,They hail Man’s triumph over Nature’s laws;He conquers gravity, and dares to fly!The speck-like globe slow rises in the air,While all the throng below shout, “God-like Man!”How pitiful! The flag-decked car but dragsIts way, a finger’s breadth above their heads,And falls, a few leagues off, into the sea;When ships must rescue Man, the king of air!“He soon will touch the stars,” enthusiasts cry;His highest flights ne’er reach the mountain-top,That lifts its mole-hill head above the plain.
What different views above and underneath!From one, the silken pear cleaves through the cloud,And floats, beyond your vision, in the blue,And franchised Man no longer wears Earth’s chain;The other sees him drifting o’er the ground,Beneath the level of the hills around,The captive still of watchful gravity.
Upon yon strip of land, two insect swarmsAre drawn up, front to front, in serried lines;These are the armies, ’neath whose trampling treadThe very Earth doth tremble, now they joinIn dreadful conflict. From the battling ranksLeap tiny bits of flame, and puffs of smoke,Where thundering cannon belch their carnage forth;The heated missile cleaves its sparkling way,The screaming shell its smoke-traced curve; the swordGleams redly with the varnish of its blood,The bayonets like ripples on a lake.How palsied every arm, how still each heart!If one discharge of Heaven’s artillery roaredAbove their heads—not that faint mutter thouPerchance hast heard from some electric cloud,But when a meteor curves immensity,And bursts in glittering fragments that would dashThy world an atom from their path. But GodHath thrown the blanket of His atmosphereAround the Earth, and shield, it from the jarOf pealing salvos, that reverberateThrough Heaven’s illimitable dome.Yet thou,The meanest of thy race of worms, hast daredTo question God’s designs. Know then that HeOrdains that all, His glory shall work out.The coral architect beneath the waveDoth magnify Him, as the burning sunThat lights a thousand worlds. His power directsThe mechanism of a Universe,Whose vastness thou hast been allowed to see,And yet the mottled sparrow in the hedgeFalls not without His notice. MagnitudeIs not the seal of power, though man thinks so;The least brown feather of the sparrow’s wing,In adaptation to its end displaysGod’s wisdom, as the ocean. HarmonyIs Heaven’s watchword, key to all designs.A tendency towards perfection’s endPervades Creation; to this perfect end,The polity Divine is leading Earth.Endowed with reason, Man, perforce, is free;And God, forseeing how he’ll freely act,Adjusts all circumstance accordingly.The order of this sequence, Man doth learnIn part; adapts himself to these fixed laws;And thus is formed a general harmony.Although the individual may oppose,His forseen freedom, acting in a netOf circumstance, secures the wished-for end.The bloodiest wars are sources of great good,Invasive floods rouse national energies,Or, mingling, form a greater people still;Hume’s skepticism foils its own design,And rouses lusty champions of the Truth,Who build its walls far stronger than before.Poor sordid Man! like all your gold-slave race,You deem wealth happiness. Hence, all your doubtsAbout God’s providence are based on gold.The wicked have it, and the righteous not.What you assert is oftenest reversed,And in a census of the world, you’d findThe good, in every land, the wealthiest.But Earth is not the bar where Man is judged;But only where free-will and circumstanceMay join in general progress. Gold is good!Then good depends on use of circumstance,And not on moral merit. Well ’tis so!For were the righteous only blessed, all menWould righteousness pursue, from sordid aims,—The most devout, who love their money best;And thus good actions’ essence would be lost,That they be done for good, within itself,And not for benefit to be conferred.
Then for your doubts about the righteous poor;A certain law is fixed for general good,—Some actions yield a gain and some a loss.A wicked man may use the first, and gain,A righteous man may use the last, and lose;The wicked does not gain by wickedness,But by compliance with this natural law.The righteous, still as righteous, might have gainedBy different course of conduct, had he known;But his condition now, can but be changedBy special miracle; but miracles,In favor of the righteous, would destroyAll strife for good as good.Their compensation in another world;The poor may findAnd even here, in consciousness of right,In surety of Heav’n, and peace of mind.And in the case you’ve stated, like all thoseWho talk as you have done, you overdraw,And color more with Fancy than with Truth.You’ll find no widow, perfect in her trust,As you’ve described, who is so destitute.Go search the lanes and alleys; where you findThe greatest squalor, there is greatest crime;For poverty is oftenest but a nameFor reckless vice, and vile depravity.Your case is but exception to the rule,And not the rule, of Providence. To giveThe righteous, only, wealth and worldly storeWould take away Man’s freedom, and all good.
But I will answer in your folly’s mode.The justice, then, of Nature’s laws you doubt,Forgetting they are fixed for general good,And not for individual. These laws,In their effects, you praise as very good;Yet, in their causes, call the most unjust.The fertile fields, with grain for man’s support,Are nourished by a miasmatic air,That, sickening but a few, feeds all the world.While, were the air all pure, a few were well,And millions starving. In the tropics, too,The scenes you deprecate, themselves but causeThe very beauties you admire. Unjust,You would enjoy effects without a cause.The goods of Nature often take their riseFrom what to man proves evil. For the goods,He makes his mind to meet the evils; thenCan he complain, or think it hard to bear?But Nature’s dealings towards Man are just.He knows that he is free, and Nature not;If he opposes Nature’s laws and falls,Is Nature to be blamed? The widow’s cotIs frail; the laws of general good requireA storm; it comes, and shattered falls the cot.Should God have saved it by a miracle,Then all His people could demand the same,And Earth would soon become the bar of God,God may exert a special providence,But Man may not detect it, as the ruleInvariable of life, and still be free;For he were thus compelled to seek the good.Then Nature, over Man, holds not a tyranny,But keeps the perfect pandect of her laws,And Man is free to obey them, or oppose.
Like shallow-thoughted reasoners of Earth,You make assertions without slightest proof,Or faintest shade of truth. Your thesis, this:God marks with disapproval all the good,And blesses all the evil with His smile.Entirely false in every case! The goodAre ever happiest, in peace of mind,In ease of conscience, and the hope of Heaven.The wicked may be even rich, but wealthAnd happiness are far from synonyms.Is happiness the child of circumstance,Or is it not the offspring of the mind?And if the mind be tranquil and serene,Does happiness not follow everywhere?The cause of doubt in you, and many more,Is that the thousands who profess the good,Are ever mourning their unhappy lot,And sighing o’er the gloomy, narrow way;The tribulation of the promise read,Without its good cheer context. These are theyWho stamp with misery’s blackest seal, a lifeOf righteousness. By these you cannot judge,For they are not what they profess, and wouldBe miserable in Heaven, unless changed.But take the truly good, one who’s contentTo take whate’er befalls, submissively;Who feels assured that all works for the best;Take him, in all conditions, rich or poor,In sickness or in health, in pain or ease;Compare your happy wicked, with his gold,’Twill not require a moment to decideWhich one is happier!Again, you askWhy Man was not created happy, and kept so?His very freedom and intelligencePrevents a forcèd happiness. The endsOf all Creation would be marred, and ManLose personality. A happinessMade universal, asks moralityThat’s universally compelled; and lostIs all the scheme of virtue and reward.Man, forced to action would degenerateInto a listless, lifeless thing; the worldLose all its fine machinery of thoughtCombined with action. Beautiful varietyCould not exist, dull sameness would be life.But Man is placed, with free intelligence,Amid surroundings from which he may cullA happiness intense, whate’er their nature be.If bright, the consciousness they are deserved;If gloomy, sweet reflections that they drapeA future all the brighter for their gloom.
But Man, within himself, your puzzle proves;And not to you alone, for Angel wingsHave hovered o’er your globe, and Angel mindsPeered curiously into his soul, to learnIts mysteries, in vain. The Mind SupremeThat formed the soul, alone can understandIts wondrous depths. ’Tis not surprising thenThat Man has tried in vain to know himself.His mind, compared with his body, seems so great,He deems its power unlimited. He findsIt weak, before the barriers of thought,That gird it, mountain high, on every side.No path can he pursue that’s infinite.And few exist, that do not thither lead.Hence all the vagaries that have obtainedAmong your race. The doubt of everything,Is only too far tracing of a thoughtInto absurdity intense. If youDeem all the world effect upon yourself,A principle of fairness would demandThat you accord the right to other men.The question then arises, who is heThat really does exist, and all the restHis ideas? Sure your neighbor has the rightTo claim the honor, just as well as you!Hume’s foolish thought, extended to its length,Will answer not a single end of life,And terminates in nonsense none believe.
The conflict of the mental powers defeatsYour inquiries. You cannot reconcileThe unruled circumstance, with Man’s free-willYou deem the motive free, and Man its slave;As if the motive, unintelligent,Could have a freedom, or a slavery!You make the motive to exist within the mind,When it, perforce, must be without. You getThe unruled motive from the circumstance,When this itself must act upon the mind,And iffreemotives rise within the mind,They are apart, and thereforemindis free.And what you deemed a motive to the mind,Was mental action, and its modes of thought.The motive is confined to circumstance,And mind the circumstance can oft control,And even when it cannot, acts at will.
The mind may to a kingdom be compared,Where Reason occupies the throne. BeneathIts scepter bow, in perfect vassalage,The faculties, desires, and appetites.These then are acted on by motive powers,And straight report the action to their king,Who does impartially decide for each.The unruled motive is without the mind,And forms no part of it, although the parts,Receiving motive action, so are called.Thus when you hunger, the desire of food,Confined to mind, is not a motive power;But urged by motive bodily demand,It tells the need to Reason, who decides.Thus when you pare your peach, the tempting fruitAnd fleshly need, move on the appetite,Who begs the Reason for consent to eat;Your friend’s opinion of your self-control,Is motive to Desire of esteem,Who begs the Reason to refuse consent.The Reason, then, like righteous judge, decreesIn favor of that one, more strongly shown;And feels a perfect freedom in its choice.
’Tis most unfair to wait the action’s end,Then cry, the mind was forced to choose this act;But choice is Reason’s free decree. SometimesThe Reason errs, and evil then ensues;But Reason, now more conscious that ’tis free,Regrets it had not acted otherwise.By knowing what your reason deems the best,You judge how other men will act. You learn,By intercourse, what they permit to changeThe Reason’s sentence. So, while with a friend,You show your wealth, because you know he’s free,And can, and will, resist impulse to crime.Were he not free, you’d dare not go aloneWith him, for, any moment, might ariseA motive irresistible, and heWould kill and rob, because that motive’s slave.Were he not free, you were no more secure,In pleasant parlance, than on desert isle.
The laws are made for man, alone, as free.For, otherwise, the motives they presentWere blind attempts so coincide with Fate.They would complete the gross absurdity,Of Man collective governing himself,And therefore free, while individualsAre helpless slaves of motives they but aidTo furnish.Fate, as held in fullest form,Yourself has proved the theory of fools;For were it true, a blind passivityWere Man’s perfection on the Earth. CompareThe two; Free-will as held, whate’er their faith,By every one, in daily practices;A world of harmony, for very warsYield good; a mechanism complicate,That even Angels, wondering at, admire;A world, whose wondrous progress is maintainedBy practical belief in liberty.And on the other hand, behold a worldOf universal inactivity!Its millions starving for delinquent Fate;—I doubt your faith would last till dinner-time,A morning’s lapse would change a hungry globeTo firm belief in free-will work for food.
With many, God’s foreknowledge binds free-will;He knows the future, how each man will act,And man can never change from what God knows.They reason thus, that prescience is decree,And what God knows will happen, must take place.That God may know the future offree-willI prove by this. Suppose two worlds alike,And governed by two Gods. Each one can see,And foresee all transpires in both the worlds,Yet each o’er th’ other’s world exerts no power.A man in one does wrong; the other GodMay have foreseen the action for an age,Yet had not slightest power to cause or stop.Does his foreknowledge qualify the act?If thus you can suppose, why not believe,When errors flow from opposite belief?God in the future stands, and waits for man,Who works the present, only gift of Time.There is no future save in God’s own mind.Man’s future means continued present time;God’s future is but present time to Him,In which He lives, not will live when it comes.Man’s acts He sees as done, not to be done.And God compels not more than Man does Man,Who sees his fellow’s deeds, not causes them.Man only knows Man’s present acts; but GodThe future sees, as present to His mind.
To end with perfect proof, you know you’re free.This all the world attests, and each believes.How subtle soe’er may his reasoning be,He contradicts it throughout all his life;And all his plans, and all the right and wrongOf self and friends he bases on free-will.If disbelief no inconvenience prove,Few men believe what is not understood;And yet the most familiar things of lifeAre far beyond their comprehensions’ power.Who understands the turning of the foodTo sinew, muscle, blood, and bone? yet whoWill starve because he knows not how ’tis done?Who understands the mystery of birth,And when and where the soul originates?And yet a million mothers bend, to-day,O’er tender babes, and know that they exist;A billion people know they once were born.Who understands the mystery of death,And how the soul is severed from its clay?Yet who has not wept o’er departed ones,Received the dying clasp, the dying look,And known, full well, Death’s bitter, bitter truth?None comprehends the movement of a limb,Yet many boast the powers of their’s might.Then why doubt freedom of the will, when life,In every phase, but proves its certain truth?The edifice of shallow theoristsBefore the sweeping blade of practice falls.
Your dive into the heart yields folly’s fruit;The selfish theory, carried to its end,Makes wrong of right, and overturns the world.And strong it is in seeming; for the self,In human conduct, plays important part.But ’tis not action’s only source, nor dimsThe quality of every action’s worth.’Tis true that Man exists in self alone,And in himself feels pain or pleasure. True,An instinct teaches to avoid the one,And seek the other; true, that every act,How small soe’er, gives pleasure or gives pain.Yet thousand deeds are done without regardTo one or other, or effect on Self.Howe’er an action may affect the Self,If he that acts has not a thought of it,The action is not selfish. You appealTo Man, and so will I appeal to you.You find a helpless brute, with broken limb,Upon the roadside, moaning out its pain.Now, though to aid will surely pleasure give,And to neglect will cause remorseful pain,Is there a single thought of this, when you,With kindest hand, bind up the swollen bruise,And hold the grateful water to its mouth?Is not each thought to ease the sufferer’s pain?Is not the Self first found, when on your wayYou go, with lighter heart, for kindness done?And while you think with pleasure on the deed,Would you not feel despised in your own eyes,If consciousness revealed ’twas done for Self?But should you say that Self was thus concealed,And still evoked the deed, the argumentThe same; if Self was out of thought, the deedHad other source.In all, you thus mistakeThe deed’s effect, unthought of, for its source.God, in His wisdom, hath affixed to goodPerformed, a pleasure, and to evil, pain.But selfish actions are not good, you’ve said,And therefore cannot slightest pleasure yield.Here, then, your system contradicts itself;All actions emanate from love of Self,To find the highest pleasure for that Self;And yet the pleasure’s lost by very search;What good soe’er apparently is sought,The consciousness of selfish aims destroys.And here is wisdom manifest. When SelfWould seek the good, for pleasure to the Self,The pleasure is not found; but when it seeksThe good alone, true pleasure is conferred.I mean the Self of soul, not Self of flesh;For pleasure to the sense, to be attainedIs sought; these two are mingled intricate(And hard to separate), in thousand ways.But when Man’s higher Self would seek its good,It must forget the Self. In every caseYou instanced, Self of soul must be unthought,For pleasure will not come at call of Self.Your gambler none will doubt has selfish ends;Not so the preacher, for his pleasure sought,Would ne’er be found; it must be out of thought.His burning eloquence, his pastoral care,Can not proceed from any love of Self,For Self would suffer, when it knew their source;But as he acts from love of good as good,The Self is happy. When he ascertainsThat some have died in sin through his neglect,The Self is grieved, not that it was uncared,For care of Self would not allay the pain,But that a duty had not been performed;That good had been neglected, as a good.The gambler’s object may be highest goodFor Self, according to his estimate;The preacher seeks a good, but not for Self;When Self appears, the good to evil turns.Nor is the mystic selfish in his cave,Save that he buries talents in himself,That might avail for good to other men;But all his mind is bent on pleasing God,His only thought of Self is for its pain;And this he deems acceptable to Heaven.You can not judge by your analysis,But by what passes in the actor’s mind.One surely then could not be selfish termed,Who only lived to mortify the Self,Howe’er mistaken may his conduct be.Nor is the man, who gives his wealth away,If from right principles he gives. ’Tis true,He finds a pleasure in the deed when done,But if to gain that pleasure he has given,It turns to gall and wormwood in his grasp.If two men matches light, and know full well,If one is dropped, a house will be consumed,He is the most guilty that allows its fall.The miser, then, who knows he does a wrong,Is by that knowledge rendered criminal.“The quality of actions must be judged”From their intents, that often differ wide;The man who shoots his friend by accidentHas no intent, and therefore does no wrong;But he who murders does a score of wrongs,—A score of basest motives prompt the deed,All centred in the Self. The Christian’s workMust, from its very nature, have no Self,Or it becomes unchristian. Man can judge,Not from effect, but motives ascertainedBy inference, and experience. The lawIs formed hereon, and modified by years.Time teaches men that punishment will stop,And only punishment, the spread of crime.Instinct and Nature’s order teaches youThat pain must follow wrong. A man commitsA crime; if left unpunished, he repeats;And others, seeing his security,Will do as he has done. So all mankindWould hasten on to lawlessness and ruin.But law, for real wrong inflicts a wrong,Which would be just did it no farther go;But it is proved expedient, inasmuchAs it prevents continued crime. Then deathBy law can not be murder termed, since goodIn aim and end, without malicious thought.Thus good to many flows from wrong to one(If that may wrong be termed that takes the rightsBy conduct forfeited), who should receive,Though none reaped benefit. For many’s good,The law is made, yet never does a wrongTo individuals, unless deserved.
Throughout your reas’ning, like all Earthly minds,When dataless, essaying hidden truths,You wander blindly in conjecture’s field,And if you find the truth, it is a chance.You fain would raise a stone of skepticism,By granting souls immortal unto beasts;You prove your pointer must possess a soul,And by your argument, the trees have souls;For when an oak has fallen, every twigMay still be there, and something, life, be gone.A chair, a table, anything you see,Possesses something, not of any parts,But that to which the parts are said, belong,Then, one by one, take all the parts away,The something called the table must exist,For ’twas not in a part, nor is removed.
The mind of beasts exists but through their flesh,And is developed subject to its laws,And flesh is the condition of their life.When flesh dissolves, the mind disintegrates,And ceases to exist. Man feels within,The consciousness of soul, that would surviveThough flesh were torn to shreds upon the wheel.The parts of soul that live alone through flesh,Must perish with it in the hour of death.
But having postulated Self, as sourceOf human conduct, you compel the actsTo fit your theory. You change effectFor cause. Where’er a moral pleasure’s found,You judge that for its gain the deed was done;As if the pleasure could be gained by search!That Self does enter largely into inner lifeIs very plain, for everything affects,In some way, Self; but does the mind regardEffect, or is its object something else?The appetites, affections, and desires,You make of selfish origin, yet knowThat is not selfish, which alone affects;But acting with a reference to effect.The appetites are instincts; as you breathe,You hunger, thirst, in helplessness. Not Self,But food or drink, the object of your thought.And even while the taste is in your mouth,The mind dwells on the taste, not on the Self.Desires are partly selfish in their mode;Desire of knowledge, seeking honor’s meed,Is selfish; led by curiosity,’Tis not more selfish than an appetite.Desire of power, esteem, and wide-spread fame,Is selfish, when the thought of their effectOn Self shapes out the conduct; when desiredFor their own sake, unselfish.On the listAffections terminate, you falsely railThe mother, and the lover; both sincere,And both without a thought of selfish aim.’Tis no reproach to say the mother’s love,In fervid instinct, and development,Is like the cow’s, that God in wisdom gives.No love so pure as that which moves the cowTo hover round her young, to bear the blowsImpatient hunger deals the udder drained,To smooth with loving tongue the tender coat,Or meet the playful forehead with her own;With threatening horn, to guard approach of harm;And watch, with ceaseless care, the charge in sleep.Her careful love continues, till the calfHas grown beyond her need, and ceases then.A mother loves because it is her child:This is the surest reason you could give.Th’ affection is spontaneous in her breast,But fed and strengthened by his life, if good.The opposites to love you named, affectHer love, by not an injury done to Self,But by their evil, which her soul abhors.Her son’s antagonism’s not to her,But to the good she loves. Her heart withdrawsIts twining tendrils from unworthiness.As usual, you select supposed effects,And then assume their causes. Could you seeThe mother’s heart, you’d find the loss of loveCaused not by wrong to her, but wrong abstractDeveloped in the concrete deeds of crime.Her love is governed by a moral sense,Or idea of the good; the people’s thoughtAbout herself comes in as after-part.Bad treatment to herself, although it pain,Deals not a fatal blow to love, exceptAs showing lack of principle in him.And so your lover is not hurt in Self,But moral sense. The loved one’s perfidy,And not her ridicule, beheads your love;Her stunning words were playful pleasantry,Did they not show the baseness of the heart.Indeed, to turn your reasoning on yourself,Her manner even towards you has not changed,And were you present, she would still seem yours;Her eaves-dropped words do not affect the Self,Save as they show her falsity of heart.And tossing on your pillow, through the night,The crushing thought of wrecked integrityGives deeper pain than all her ridicule.And Self, though pained at thought of being duped,Enjoys relief in thought of its escape.To show that Love is built on higher groundsThan paltry good for Self; that it must have,As corner-stone, a percept of the good,Existing in the object loved, supposeYou’re on the topmost height of wildest love,Your arm around her, and your lingering kissUpon her lips; and Self is king of love.She, nestling on your shoulder, finds ’tis wrong,That love, however true, may grow too warm;That every kiss, however pure, abstractsSome little part from maiden modesty,And steals a pebble from her honor’s wallAnd rising with the firm resolve, says, “Cease,Unwind your arm, restrain your fervid lips;It may be wrong, and right is surely safe!”Now though the Self is bitterly denied,The rapturous clasp and tender kiss forbid,Is not your love increased a thousand-fold?Do not you feel intensely gratifiedAt this assurance of her moral worth?And would you, for the world, breath aught to causeHer pain, or least regret for her resolve?How firm your trust, how sweet your confidence!You know ’twas not capricious prudery,For your caresses had been oft received;Nor was it sly hypocrisy to winYour heart, for that was long since hers. No thought,But spotless purity, inspired the act;And you are happy, though the Self’s denied.