Chapter I: HAVE come from the heart of all natural things, (1)

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 feet
Through 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 heart
All the sorrows and woes that oppressed it depart,
And to lay the tired head, with its achings, to rest
On the heart of all others that loves it the best;
O, thus is it ever, when, wearied, we yearn
To 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.

MARGERY MILLER.

OLD Margery 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 forgotten _she_ was 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 renown
From 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! could _she_ hope 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,
How _could_ she 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.

_Then_ swelled 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 the _hem_ of 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,
God _had not_ forgotten she was his own.

A change o’er her pallid features passed;
She felt that her feet were nearing fast
The 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 flown
To the world unknown,
Where true hearts _never_ can be alone.

THE LAW OF LIFE.

Deeply musing
On the many mysteries of life;
Half excusing
All man’s seeming failures in the strife;
Through the city
Did I take my lonely way at night;
Filled with pity
For the miseries that met my sight,
In the faces, sickly, sad and sunken,
In the faces, meager, mean and shrunken,
Wanton, leering, passionate and drunken,
Which I saw that night,
Passing through the city--
Saw them by the street-lamps’ changing light.

Burning brightly,
Looked the watching stars from heaven above;
As if lightly
They beheld these wrecks of human love.
“O, how distant,”
Said I, “are they from this earth apart!
How resistant
To the woes that rend the human heart!
Countless worlds! your radiant courses rounding,
With your light the depth of distance sounding,
Is there not some fount of love abounding?
O, thou starlit night
Brooding o’er the city!
Would that truth might as thy stars shine bright.”

Very lightly
Was a woman’s hand laid on my arm.
Pressing slightly--
And a voice said--striving to be calm--
“I am dying,
Slowly dying for the want of love;
Vainly trying
To believe there is a God above.
For I feel that I am sinking slowly,
Losing daily, faith and patience lowly,
Doomed to ways of sin and deeds unholy--
All the weary night,
Through this cruel city
Do I wander till the morning light.

“Hear me kindly,
For I am not what I would have been,
If most blindly
I had not been tempted unto sin.
I am lonely,
And I long to shriek in anguish wild,
O, if only
I could be once more a little child!
See! my eyes are weary-worn with weeping;
Sorrow’s tide across my soul is sweeping;
God no longer holds me in his keeping--
I have prayed to-night,
Wandering through the city,
That I might not see the morning light.”

Breathless, gazing
On her pallid and impassioned face,
How amazing
Was the likeness that I there could trace!
“Sister!” “Brother!”
From our lips as by one impulse broke.
Not another
Word, then, for an instant brief we spoke.
But the sweet and tender recollection
Of our childhood, with its fond affection,
And at last, the broken, lost connection,
Came afresh that night,
Standing in the city
Underneath the street-lamps’ changing light.

Pale and slender,
Like a lily did she bow her head.
Low and tender
Was the earnest tone in which she said--
“O, my brother!
Tell me of our father.”--“He is dead.”
“And our mother?”
“And she, also, rests in peace,” I said.
Only to my grievous words replying,
By a long-drawn, deep and painful sighing,
Sinking downward, as if crushed and dying,
Did she seem that night,
Standing in the city
Underneath the street-lamps’ changing light.

Wherefore should I
Thrust her from my guilty heart away?
Ah, how could I!
Whatsoe’er the _righteous_ world might say--
She, my sister,
One who shared in mine own life a part--
Nay, I kissed her,
And upraised her to a brother’s heart.
And I said, “Henceforth we will not sever,
But with faith and patience failing never,
We will work for truth and right forever.
Ministers of light,
Watching o’er the city!
Guide! O, guide our erring feet aright!”

Gently o’er us
Came a breath of warm and balmy air,
And before us
Stood a man with silvery, flowing hair.
How appearing
From the murky gloom that round us fell,
Mild and cheering
In his presence, I could never tell.
But I say with solemn asservation,
That it was no fanciful creation,
Bearing to this life no true relation,
Which we saw that night,
Standing in the city,
Underneath the street-lamps’ changing light.

“Children!” said he,
“One of life’s great lessons you are taught;
Be then ready
To apply the teaching as you ought.
_All_ are brothers--
_All_ are sisters in this lower life.
Many others
Make sad failures in the weary strife;
But each failure is a grand expression
Of the law which underlies progression,
Which will raise the soul above transgression.
Yea, this very night,
All throughout this city,
Every soul is striving toward the light.”

“Bruised and broken,
Many hearts in patient sorrow wait,
To hear spoken
Words of love, which often come too late.
Lift their crosses,
And their sins--the heaviest load of all--
Bear their losses,
And be patient with them when they fall.”
Then he vanished, as the shadows parted,
Leaving us alone, but hopeful hearted,
Gazing into space where he departed
From our wondering sight,
In that mazy city--
Vanished in the shadows of the night.

Sacred presence!
Dwelling just beyond our mortal sense,
Through thine essence,
Fill our beings with a life intense.
By creation
Man fulfills a destiny sublime,
And salvation
Comes to each in its appointed time.
In that region of celestial splendor,
Where the angel-faces look so tender,
Human weakness needeth no defender.
In the perfect light
Of the heavenly city,
Souls can read the law of life aright.

A RESPECTABLE LIE.

“A respectable lie, sir! Pray what do you mean?
Why the term in _itself_ is a plain contradiction.
A lie is a _lie_, and deserves no respect,
But merciless judgment, and speedy conviction.
It springs from corruption, is servile and mean,
An evil conception, a coward’s invention,
And whether direct, or but simply implied,
Has naught but deceit for its end and intention.”

Ah, yes! very well! So _good morals_ would teach;
But _facts_ are the _most_ stubborn things in existence,
And _they_ tend to show that _great_ lies win respect,
And hold their position with wondrous persistence.
The _small_ lies, the _white_ lies, the lies _feebly told_,
The world will condemn both in spirit and letter;
But the _great, bloated_ lies will be held in respect,
And the _larger_ and _older_ a lie is, the better.

A respectable lie, from a _popular_ man,
On a _popular_ theme, never taxes endurance;
And the pure, golden coin of _un_popular _truth_,
Is often _refused_ for the _brass of assurance_.
You may dare all the laws of the land to defy,
And bear to the truth the most shameless relation,
But never attack _a respectable lie_,
If you value a name, or a good reputation.

A lie well established, and hoary with age,
Resists the assaults of the boldest seceder;
While he is accounted the greatest of saints,
Who silences reason and follows the leader.
Whenever a mortal has _dared_ to be wise,
And seize upon Truth, as the soul’s “Magna Charta,”
He always has won from the lovers of lies,
The name of a fool, or the fate of a martyr.

There are popular lies, and political lies,
And “lies that stick fast between buying and selling,”
And lies of politeness--conventional lies--
(Which scarcely are reckoned as such in the telling.)
There are lies of sheer malice, and slanderous lies,
From those who delight to peck filth like a pigeon;
But the _oldest_ and far _most respectable_ lies,
Are those that are told in the name of Religion.

Theology sits like a tyrant enthroned,
A system _per se_ with a fixed nomenclature,
Derived from strange doctrines, and dogmas, and creeds,
At war with man’s reason, with God and with Nature;
And he who subscribes to the popular faith,
Never questions the fact of divine inspiration,
But holds to the Bible as absolute truth,
From Genesis through to St. John’s Revelation.

We mock at the Catholic bigots at Rome,
Who strive with their dogmas man’s reason to fetter;
But we turn to the Protestant bigots at home,
And we find that their dogmas are scarce a whit better.
We are called to believe in the wrath of the Lord--
In endless damnation, and torments infernal;
While around and above us, the Infinite Truth,
Scarce heeded or heard, speaks sublime and eternal.

It is sad--but the day-star is shining on high,
And Science comes in with her conquering legions;
And ev’ry respectable, time-honored lie,
Will fly from her face to the mythical regions.
The soul shall no longer with terror behold
The red waves of wrath that leap up to engulf her,
For Science ignores the existence of hell,
And chemistry finds better uses for sulphur.

We may dare to repose in the beautiful faith,
That an Infinite Life is the source of all being;
And though we must strive with delusion and Death,
We can trust to a love and a wisdom all-*seeing;
We may dare in the strength of the soul to arise,
And walk where our feet shall not stumble or falter;
And, freed from the bondage of time-honored lies,
To lay all we have on the Truth’s sacred altar.

THE RAINBOW BRIDGE.

’Twas a faith that was held by the Northmen bold,
In the ages long, long ago,
That the river of death, so dark and cold,
Was spanned by a radiant bow;
A rainbow bridge to the blest abode
Of the strong Gods--free from ill,
Where the beautiful Urda fountain flowed,
Near the ash tree Igdrasill.

They held that when, in life’s weary march,
They should come to that river wide,
They would set their feet on the shining arch,
And would pass to the other side.
And they said that the Gods and the Heroes crossed
That bridge from the world of light,
To strengthen the Soul when its hope seemed lost,
In the conflict for the right.

O, beautiful faith of the grand old past!
So simple, yet so sublime,
A light from that rainbow bridge is cast
Far down o’er the tide of time.
We raise our eyes, and we see above,
The souls in their homeward march;
They wave their hands and they smile in love,
From the height of the rainbow arch.

We know they will drink from the fountain pure
That springs by the Tree of Life,
We know that their spirits will rest secure
From the tempests of human strife;
So we fold our hands, and we close our eyes,
And we strive to forget our pain,
Lest the weak and the selfish wish should rise,
To ask for them back again.

The swelling tide of our grief we stay,
While our warm hearts fondly yearn,
And we ask if over that shining way
They shall nevermore return.
O, we oft forget that our lonely hours
Are known to the souls we love,
And they strew the path of our life with flowers,
From that rainbow arch above.

We hear them call, and their voices sweet
Float down from that bridge of light,
Where the gold and crimson and azure meet,
And mingle their glories bright.
We hear them call, and the soul replies,
From the depths of the life below,
And we strive on the wings of faith to rise
To the height of that radiant bow.

Like the crystal ladder that Jacob saw,
Is that beautiful vision given,
The weary pilgrims of earth to draw
To the life of their native heaven.
For ’tis better that souls should upward tend,
And strive for the victor’s crown,
Than to ask the angels their help to lend,
And come to man’s weakness down.

That rainbow bridge in the crystal dome,
O’er a swiftly flowing tide,
Is the shining way to the spirit home,
That lies on the other side.
To man is the tempest cloud below,
And the storm wind’s fatal breath,
But for those who cross o’er that shining bow,
There is no more pain nor death.

O, fair and bright does that archway stand,
Through the silent lapse of years,
Fashioned and reared by no human hand,
From the sunshine of love and tears.
Sweet spirits, our footsteps are nearing fast
The light of the shining shore;
We shall cross that rainbow bridge at last,
And greet you in joy once more.

REST THOU IN PEACE.

“And the token that the angel gave her, that he was a true
messenger, was an arrow, with a point sharpened with Love, let
easily into her heart, which by degrees wrought so effectually with
her, that at the time appointed she must be gone.”

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.

REST thou in peace! Beneath the sheltering sod
There is a lowly door, a narrow way,
That leadeth to the Paradise of God;
There, weary pilgrim, let thy wanderings stay.

Rest thou in peace! We would not call thee back
To know the grief that comes with riper years,
To tread in sorrow all Life’s thorny track,
And drain with us the bitter cup of tears.

Rest thou in peace! With chastened hearts we bow,
And pour for thee a low and solemn strain;
Thy voice shall chant the hymns of Zion now,
But it shall mingle not with ours again.

Rest thou in peace! Not in the silent grave--
Thy spirit heard the summons from above,
And blessed the token that the angel gave--
An arrow, sharpened--but with tenderest love.

Rest thou in peace! With blessings on thy head,
Pass to the land where sinless spirits dwell--
Gone, but not lost!--We will not call thee _dead_--
The angels claimed thee! Dear one--Fare-thee-well.

ANGEL LILY.

OF all the flowers that greet the light,
Or open ’neath the summer’s sun,
With fragrance sweet, and beauty bright,
The Lily is the fairest one,
And in its incense-cup there lies
A perfume, as from Paradise.

O, once there lived a fair, sweet child,
And Lily was her gentle name;
As beautiful and meekly mild,
As if from Heaven’s pure life she came--
A breathing psalm, a living prayer,
To make men think of worlds more fair.

O, there was sunshine in her smile,
And music in her dancing feet,
And every tender, artless wile,
Made her dear presence seem more sweet;
But ever in her childish play,
A strange, unfathomed mystery lay.

Her playmates--well, we could not see
That which our darling Lily saw--
But often in her childish glee,
She filled our loving hearts with awe,
When, pointing to the viewless air,
She told us of the Angels there.

“O, very beautiful!” she said,
“And very gentle are they all;
At night they watch around my bed,
And always answer to my call.
I asked to go with them one day,
But a tall angel told me nay.”

Yes--the “tall Angel” told her nay,
But it was only for a time;
We knew our Lily could not stay
Long in this uncongenial clime.
Into their home of love and light
The Angels led her from our sight.

They led her from the earth away,
Into the blesséd “summer-land,”
Leaving to us her form of clay,
With budding lilies in the hand;
An emblem of her life, to be
Unfolded in Eternity.

O, though there falls a gloom like night
From Sorrow’s overshadowing wing,
How often does returning light
A ray of heavenly brightness bring,
And problems that were dark before
Can vex the soul with doubt no more.

Beneath that heavy cloud we stood,
Through which no ray of gladness stole,
But well we knew that Sorrow’s flood
Would cleanse and purify the soul;
And when its ministry should cease,
Our lives would blossom fair with peace.

One evening, when the summer moon
With silver radiance filled the sky,
And through the fragrant flowers of June
The balmy breeze sighed dreamily,
With spirits calm and reconciled,
We talked of our dear Angel child.

We spoke of her we loved so well,
As one who only went before--
When lo! just where the moonlight fell
With mellow lustre on the floor,
We saw our own sweet darling stand,
With half-blown lilies in her hand.

She seemed more beautiful and fair
Than when a simple child of earth;
The golden glory in her hair
Betokened her celestial birth;
But as she sweetly looked and smiled,
We knew she was our own dear child.

O, strange to say! we did not start,
We did not even wildly weep,
For each had schooled the wayward heart
The law of perfect peace to keep--
And deep as Love’s unfathomed sea
Had been our faith that _this would be_.

O, shall we tell those moments o’er--
And all her words of love repeat--
And say how, through Time’s open door
She glided in with noiseless feet?
Nay, rather let us purely hold
Such things too sacred to be told.

Enough to say we wait our time,
With heaven’s own sunshine in the heart,
Rejoicing in the faith sublime,
That those who love _can never part_,
And wheresoe’er the soul may dwell,
That God will order all things well.

THE ALL IN ALL.

HOW beautiful the roses bloom
Around the portals of the tomb!
How fair the meek white lilies grow
From elements of death below!
How tender and serenely bright
The stars light up the depths of night!

Thus beauty unto ruin clings,
And light from deepest darkness springs;
The Soul its noblest strength must gain
Through ministries of grief and pain;
Great victories only come through strife,
And death is but the gate of life.

The ocean waves that darkly flow,
Sweep over priceless pearls below;
The tempest cloud, when wild winds rest,
Builds up the rainbow on its breast,
And truths, unseen when all is bright,
Shine like the stars in sorrow’s night.

O Thou, in whom the vine bears fruit!
In whom the violets take their root,
For Thee the summer roses blow;
For Thee the fair white lilies grow;
And from Thine all-sustaining heart
The Soul’s immortal currents start.

O, when the circle, made complete,
Shall in thy boundless being meet,
We feel, we know, that we shall be
Made perfect in our love to Thee;
That good will triumph in that hour,
And weakness be exchanged for power.

“ECCE HOMO.”

“When the Son of Man cometh, shall he find faith in the earth?”

LUKE xviii. 8.

The merry Christmas time,
With song and silvery chime,
Had come at last;
And brightly glowed each hearth,
While winter, o’er the earth,
Its snows had cast.
High in the old cathedral tower,
The ponderous bell majestic swung,
And with its voice of solemn power
A summons to the people rung.

Then, forth from lowly walls,
And proud, ancestral halls,
Came rich and poor,
And faces wreathed with smiles
Thronged the cathedral aisles
As ne’er before.
Rich silks trailed o’er the marble pave,
And costly jewels glittered bright,
For groined arch and spacious nave
Were radiant with excess of light.

The deep-toned organ’s swell
Like billows rose and fell,
In floods of sound;
And the “Te Deum” rung,
As if by angels sung,
In space profound.
Forth the majestic anthem rolled
In harmony complete, and then
Pealed forth the angels’ song of old,
Of “peace on earth, good will to men.”

As the full chorus ceased,
Up rose the white-robed priest,
With solemn air;
With hands toward heaven outspread,
He bowed his stately head
In formal prayer.
Then, like some breathless, holy spell,
Upon the hushed and reverent crowd,
A deep, impressive silence fell,
And hands were clasped, and heads were bowed.

“Saviour of All!” he cried,
“Thou who wast crucified
For sinful man!
We worship at thy feet,
For thou hast made complete
Salvation’s plan.
Come to thy people, Lord, once more,
And let the nations hear again
The song the angels sung of yore,
Of ‘peace on earth, good will to men.’”

As if his prayer was heard,
A sudden trembling stirred
The walls around.
The doors, wide open flung,
On ponderous hinges swung,
With solemn sound.
And then, straight up the foot-worn aisle,
A strange procession made its way,
In garments coarse, of simplest style,
A strange, incongruous array.

The first, most rudely clad,
A leathern girdle had
About him bound.
The next, in humblest guise,
Raised not his mournful eyes
From off the ground.
And next to these the dusky browed,
And others, flushed with sin and shame,
And women, with their faces bowed
In deep contrition, slowly came.

No voice was heard, or sound,
From the vast concourse round,
Outspreading wide.
But onward still they passed,
Until they gained at last
The altar side.
Then said the lowly one, “O ye!
Who celebrate a Saviour’s birth,
Should he return again, would he
Find faith among the sons of earth?”

Quick, with an angry frown,
The haughty priest looked down
Upon the crowd.
“Who are ye, that ye dare
Invade this house of prayer?”
He cried aloud.
“This temple, sacred to the Lord,
Not thus shall be profaned by you:
Your deeds with his do not accord--
Begone! Begone, ye vagrant crew!”

The lowly one replied,
“These, standing by my side,
Came at my call;
Nor need they have one fear,
With me to enter here--
God loves them all.
Thou hypocrite! thou dost reject
_Me_, through thy most _unchristian creed_,
And making truth of none effect,
Thou dost dishonor me indeed.”

Around the stranger’s head
A radiant halo spread
Its glories bright;
His meek and tender face
Beamed with transcendent grace,
And heavenly light.
There, mighty in his power for good,
So gentle and divinely sweet,
The “Christus Consolator” stood,
With weeping sinners at his feet.

“We must go hence,” he said,
“To find the living bread.
Come, follow me!
My Father’s house above
Is full of light and love,
And all is free.”
High in the old cathedral tower,
The brazen bell majestic swung,
As if some strange, mysterious power
To sudden speech had moved its tongue.

O Christ! thou friend of men!
When thou shalt come again,
Through Truth’s new birth,
May all the fruits of peace
Be found in rich increase
Upon the earth.
Then shall the song of sweet accord,
Sung by the heavenly hosts of yore,
To hail the coming of their Lord,
Sound through the ages evermore.

PETER McGUIRE; OR, NATURE AND GRACE.

IT has always been thought a most critical case,
When a man was possessed of more Nature than Grace;
For Theology teaches that man from the first
Was a sinner by Nature, and justly accurst;
And “Salvation by Grace” was the wonderful plan,
Which God had invented to save erring man.
’Twas the only atonement he knew how to make,
To annul the effects of his own sad mistake.

Now this was the doctrine of good Parson Brown,
Who preached, not long since, in a small country town.
He was zealous, and earnest, and could so excel
In describing the tortures of sinners in Hell,
That a famous revival commenced in the place,
And hundreds of souls found “Salvation by Grace;”
But he felt that he had not attained his desire,
Till he had converted one Peter McGuire.

This man was a blacksmith, frank, fearless and bold,
With great brawny sinews like Vulcan of old;
He had little respect for what ministers preach,
And sometimes was very profane in his speech.
His opinions were founded in clear common sense,
And he spoke as he thought, though he oft gave offense;
But however wanting, in whole or in part,
He was sound, and all right, when you came to his heart.

One day the good parson, with pious intent,
To the smithy of Peter most hopefully went;
And there, while the hammer industriously swung,
He preached, and he prayed, and exhorted, and sung,
And warned, and entreated poor Peter to fly
From the pit of destruction before he should die;
And to wash himself clean from the world’s sinful strife,
In the Blood of the Lamb, and the River of Life.

Well, and what would you now be inclined to expect
Was the probable issue and likely effect?
Why, he swore “like a Pirate,” and what do you think?
From a little black bottle took something to drink!
And he said, “I’ll not mention the Blood of the Lamb,
But as for that River it aren’t worth a----;”
Then pausing--as if to restrain his rude force--
He quietly added, “a mill-dam, of course.”

Quick out of the smithy the minister fled,
As if a big bomb-shell had burst near his head;
And as he continued to haste on his way,
He was too much excited to sing or to pray;
But he thought how that some were elected by Grace,
As heirs of the kingdom--made sure of their place--
While others were doomed to the pains of Hell-*fire,
And if e’er there was _one_ such, ’twas Peter McGuire.

That night, when the Storm King was riding on high,
And the red shafts of lightning gleamed bright through the sky,
The church of the village, “the Temple of God,”
Was struck, for the want of a good lightning rod,
And swiftly descending, the element dire
Set the minister’s house, close beside it, on fire,
While he peacefully slumbered, with never a fear
Of the terrible work of destruction so near.

There were Mary, and Hannah, and Tommy, and Joe,
All sweetly asleep in the bedroom below,
While their father was near, with their mother at rest,
(Like the wife of John Rogers with “one at the breast.”)
But Alice, the eldest, a gentle young dove,
Was asleep all alone, in the room just above;
And when the wild cry of the rescuer came,
She only was left to the pitiless flame.

The fond mother counted her treasures of love,
When lo! one was missing--“O Father above!”
How madly she shrieked in her agony wild--
“My Alice! My Alice! O, save my dear child!”
Then down on his knees fell the Parson, and prayed
That the terrible wrath of the Lord might be stayed.
Said Peter McGuire, “Prayer is good in its place,
But then it don’t suit _this_ particular case.”

He turned down the sleeves of his red flannel shirt,
To shield his great arms all besmutted with dirt;
Then into the billows of smoke and of fire,
Not pausing an instant, dashed Peter McGuire.
O, that terrible moment of anxious suspense!
How breathless their watching! their fear how intense!
And then their great joy! which was freely expressed
When Peter appeared with the child on his breast.

A shout rent the air when the darling he laid
In the arms of her mother, so pale and dismayed;
And as Alice looked up and most gratefully smiled,
He bowed down his head and he wept like a child.
O, those tears of brave manhood that rained o’er his face,
Showed the true Grace of Nature, and the Nature of Grace;
’Twas a manifest token, a visible sign,
Of the indwelling life of the Spirit Divine.
Consider such natures, and then, if you can,
Preach of “total depravity” innate in man.
Talk of blasphemy! why, ’tis profanity wild!
To say that the Father thus cursed his own child.
Go learn of the stars, and the dew-spangled sod,
That all things rejoice in the _goodness_ of God--
That each thing created is good _in its place_,
And Nature is but the _expression_ of Grace.

HYMN OF THE ANGELS.

O SACRED Presence! Life Divine!
We rear for thee no gilded shrine--
Unfashioned by the hand of Art,
Thy temple is the child-like heart.
No tearful eye, no bended knee,
No servile speech we bring to Thee;
For thy great love tunes every voice,
And makes each trusting soul rejoice.
Then strike your lyres,
Ye angel choirs!
The sound prolong,
O white-robed throng!
Till every creature joins the song.

We will not mock Thy holy name
With titles high, of empty fame,
For Thou, with all Thy works and ways,
Art far beyond our feeble praise;
But freely as the birds that sing,
The soul’s spontaneous gift we bring,
And like the fragrance of the flowers,
We consecrate to Thee our powers.
Then strike your lyres,
Ye angel choirs!
The sound prolong,
O white-robed throng!
Till every creature joins the song.

All souls in circling orbits run,
Around Thee as their central sun;
And as the planets roll and burn,
To Thee, O Lord! for light we turn.
Nor Life, nor Death, nor Time, nor Space,
Shall rob us of our name or place,
But we shall love Thee, and adore
Through endless ages--Evermore!
Then strike your lyres,
Ye angel choirs!
The sound prolong,
O white-robed throng!
Till every creature joins the song.

GONE HOME.

THEY called her, from the better land,
And one bright spirit led the way;
She saw the angel’s beckoning hand,
And felt she could no longer stay.
O white-robed Peace! thy gentle cross
Gave to her trusting heart no pain,
And that which is our earthly loss,
Is unto her, eternal gain.

“God is a Spirit”--we can trust
That she has left earth’s shadows dim,
And laid aside her earthly dust,
To grow in likeness unto Him.
“God is a Spirit”--“God is Love”--
And closely folded to his breast,
Her spirit, like a tender dove,
Shall in His love securely rest.

O, it was meet that flower-wreathed Spring,
With forms of living beauty rife,
Should see the perfect blossoming
Of this bright spirit into life.
The flowers will bloom upon her grave,
The holy stars look down at night,
But where bright palms immortal wave,
She will rejoice in cloudless light.

O, sweeter than the breath of flowers,
Or dews that summer roses weep,
Deep in these loving hearts of ours
Her blesséd memory we will keep.
Bright spirit, let thy light be given,
With tender and celestial ray,
Beaming like some pure star from heaven,
To guide us in our earthly way.

Clad in thine immortality,
E’en now we hear thee joyful sing--
“O Grave, where is thy victory!
O Death, where is thy sting!”
Pass on, sweet spirit, to increase
In every bright, celestial grace,
Till in the land of love and peace,
We meet thee, dear one, face to face.

THE CRY OF THE DESOLATE.

“It is only with Renunciation, that life, properly speaking, can be
said to begin.”

“Light dawns upon me! There is in man a HIGHER than love of
_Happiness_; he can do without happiness, and instead thereof find
_Blessedness_.”--THOS. CARLYLE.

O GOD of the Eagle and Lion!
Thy strength to my being impart;
Not for wings, nor for sinews of iron,
I ask, but thy life in my heart.
I grope in the dark, and seek blindly
The hand that shall lead to the light;
There is no one to answer me kindly--
There is no one to teach me the right.

An arrow from Fate’s deadly quiver
Seemed carelessly sped, at no mark,
But with anguish I tremble and shiver,
For it wounded my soul in the dark.
I have suffered in silence unbroken,
I have stanched the red wound with my hand;
O God! was the arrow Thy token?
Did Fate but obey Thy command?

There is no one on earth that can render
My heart its full measure of love;
There is no one on earth that is tender
And true as the angels above.
Take me up to Thy bosom, O strong One!
O wise One! I _am_ not afraid!
For I know that Thou never wilt wrong one
Of those whom Thy wisdom hath made.

These vestments of flesh that oppress us,
Have stifled the soul’s vital breath,
Like the torturing garment of Nessus,[1]
We part from them only in death.
O Thou marvelous Soul of Existence!
Are we doomed by the might of Thy will,
Unchanged by our feeble resistance,
Thy fathomless law to fulfill?

O Fashioner! Thou who hast guided
The tempest of atoms at strife,
Hath not Thy compassion provided
A fountain of strength for each life?

And doth not Time’s changing phantasma
Still move at Thy sovereign control,
As when in Earth’s cherishing plasma
Was planted the germ of the soul?

Then lead me, for O, I am lonely!
And love me, for I am Thine own--
Yes, Great One and True One! Thine only--
And with Thee am never alone.
O God of the Eagle and Lion!
Thy strength to my being impart;
Not for wings, nor for sinews of iron
I ask--but Thy life in my heart.

THE SPIRIT-MOTHER.

THROUGH our lives’ mysterious changes,
Through the sorrow-haunted years,
Runs a law of Compensation
For our sufferings and our tears.
And the soul that reasons rightly,
All its sad complaining stills,
Till it learns that meek submission,
Where it wishes not nor wills.

Thus, in Sorrow’s fiery furnace
Was a faithful mother tried,
Till, through Love’s divinest uses,
All her soul was purified.
O ye sorrow-stricken mothers!
Ye whose weakness feeds your pain!
Listen to her simple story--
Listen! and be strong again.

“It was sunset--and the day-dream
Of my life was almost o’er;
For my spirit-bark was drifting
Slowly, slowly from the shore.
Dimly could I see the sunlight
Through my vine-wreathed window shine,
Faintly could I feel the pressure
Of a strong hand clasping mine.

“But anew the life-tide started,
At my infant’s feeble cry;
Back my spirit turned in anguish,
And I felt I could not die.
Deeper, darker fell the shadows,
Like the midnight’s sable pall,
And that infant cry grew fainter--
Fainter--fainter--that was all!

“Suddenly I heard sweet voices
Mingling in a tender strain--
All my mortal weakness left me,
All my anguish and my pain.
On my forehead fell the glory
Of the bright, celestial morn,
I was of the earth no longer,
For my spirit was re-born.

“Pure, sweet faces bent above me,
Tenderly they gazed and smiled,
And my Angel-Mother whispered,
‘Welcome, welcome home, my child!’
Then, in one melodious chorus,
Sang the radiant angel band,
‘Welcome! O thou weary pilgrim!
Welcome to the Spirit Land!’

“But, o’er all those glad rejoicings,
Rose again my infant’s cry,
For my heart had borne the echo
Through the portals of the sky.
And I murmured, O ye bright ones!
Still my earthly home is dear;
Vain are all your songs of welcome,
For I am not happy here.

“Strike your harps, ye white-robed Angels!
But your music makes me wild,
For my heart is with my treasure,
Heaven is only with my child!
Let me go, and whisper comfort
To my little mourning dove--
Life is cold; O, let me shield him
With a mother’s tenderest love!

“Swift there came a pure, white angel,
Through the glory, shining far,
In her hand she bore a lily,
On her forehead beamed a star.
Very beautiful and tender
Was the love-light in her eyes,
Like the sunny smile of Summer,
Beaming in the azure skies.

“And she said, ‘O, mourning sister!
Lo! thy prayer of love is heard,
For the boundless Heart of Being
By thine earnest cry is stirred.
Heaven is life’s divinest freedom,
And no mandate bids thee stay;
Go, and as a star of duty,
Guide thy loved one on his way.

“‘Life is full of holy uses,
If but rightly understood,
And its evils and abuses
May be stepping-stones to good.
Never seek to weakly shield him,
Or his destiny control,
For the wealth that grief shall yield him,
Is the birthright of his soul.’

“Musing deeply on her meaning,
Turned I from the heavenly shore,
And on love’s swift wings descending,
Sought my earthly home once more.
There my widowed, childless sister
Sat with meek and quiet grace,
With her heart’s great, wasting sorrow,
Written on her pale, sweet face.

“And she sang in dreamy murmurs,
Bending o’er my Willie’s head,
‘Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed.’
Soft I whispered, ‘Dearest sister--
Darling Willie--I am here.’
Sweetly smiled the sleeping infant,
And the singer dropped a tear.

“Thenceforth was my soul united
To that life more dear than mine;
And I prayed for strength to guide me,
From the source of Life Divine.
Slowly did I see the meaning
In life’s purposes concealed--
All the uses of temptation,
Sin and sorrow, stood revealed.

“Through my loved one’s youth and manhood,
In the hour of sinful strife,
I could see the nobler issues,
And the grand design of life.
I could see that he was guided
By a mightier hand than mine,
And a mother’s love was weakness,
By the side of Love Divine.

“Then I did not seek to shield him,
Or his destiny control--
Life, with all its varied changes,
Was the teacher of his soul.
Nay, I did not strive to alter
What I could not make nor mend,
For the love so full of wisdom,
Could be trusted to the end.

“I could give him strength and courage,
From the treasures of my love--
I could lead his aspirations
To the holy heart above;
I could warn him in temptation,
That he might not blindly fall;
I could wait with faith and patience
For his triumph--that was all.

“’Mid the rush and roar of battle,
In the carnival of death,
When the air grew hot and heavy,
With the cannon’s fiery breath,
First and foremost with the bravest,
Who had heard their country’s call,
With the stars and stripes above him,
Did my darling Willie fall.

“Onward--onward rushed his comrades,
With a wild, defiant cry,
As they charged upon the foeman,
Leaving him alone to die.
Faint he murmured, ‘O, my mother!
Angel mother! art thou near?’
And he caught the whispered answer,
‘Darling Willie, I am here!

“‘O, my loved one! my true-hearted!
Soon your anguish will be o’er;
Then, in heaven’s eternal sunshine,
We shall dwell for evermore.’
Swiftly o’er his pallid features,
Gleams of heavenly brightness passed,
And my Willie’s noble spirit
Met me face to face at last.

“In a soldier’s grave they laid him,
Underneath the sheltering pines,
Where the breezes made sweet music,
Through the gently swaying vines.
Now in heaven, our souls united,
All their aspirations blend,
And my spirit’s holy mission
Thus hath found a joyful end.”

Through our lives’ mysterious changes,
Through the sorrow-haunted years,
Runs a law of Compensation
For our sufferings and our tears;
And the soul that reasons rightly,
All its sad complaining stills,
Till it gains that calm condition,
Where it wishes not, nor wills.

FACE THE SUNSHINE.

O, a morbid fancy had David Bell,
That over his path like a wizard spell,
A great, black shadow forever fell.
He turned his back on the sun’s clear ray;
From a singing bird, or a child at play,
With a nervous shudder he shrank away;
And he shook his head,
As he gloomily said,
“This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

In the solemn shade of the forest wide,
Or in the churchyard at eventide,
Like a gloomy ghost he was seen to glide.
There, nursing his fancies all alone,
He would sit him down with a dismal moan,
In the dewy grass by some moss-grown stone,
And shake his head,
As he gloomily said,
“This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

Never a nod or a smile would greet
Old David Bell, in the field or street,
From the sturdy yeoman he chanced to meet.
The children fled from his path away,
And the good wives whispered, “Alack a day!
The Devil hath led his soul astray!”
For he ever said,
As he shook his head,
“This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

One Sabbath morn when the air was balm,
And the green earth smiled with a heavenly charm,
In the peaceful hush, in the holy calm,
Old David Bell, with a new intent,
Across the bridge o’er the mill-stream went,
And his steps towards the village chapel bent.
For he said, “I will try
From this fiend to fly,
And escape the shadow before I die!”

But all along on the sandy road,
His great, gaunt shadow before him strode,
Like a fiend escaped from its dark abode.
Sometimes it crouched in an angle small,
Then up it leapt, like a giant tall;
And as David noticed these changes all,
He shook his head,
As he gloomily said,
“This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

At length, he came to the chapel door,
But the great, gaunt shadow went in before,
Leaping and dancing along the floor.
Old David mournfully turned away--
He could not enter to praise and pray,
While that impish shadow before him lay.
And he shook his head,
As he gloomily said,
“This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

He wandered away, not heeding where,
To a lonely grave, where a willow fair
Whispered sweet words to the summer air.
But he saw not the long, lithe branches wave,
For only a weary look he gave
At his own black shadow, across the grave.
And he shook his head,
As he gloomily said,
“This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

“Nay, nay, good David!” a voice replied.
He turned him quickly, and close by his side
Stood old Goody Gay, known far and wide.
Though Time had stolen her bloom away,
And changed the gold of her locks to gray,
Her face was bright as the summer day.
“Don’t shake your head!”
She cheerfully said,
“But face the sunshine, good man, instead!”

With a hopeless look, and a sigh profound,
He sat himself down by the grassy mound,
Where the bright-eyed daisies grew thick around.
“Nay, leave me,” he said, in a sullen tone,
“For I and the shadow would be alone;
No balm of healing for me is known.
It will be as I said,
This thing that I dread,
This shadow, will haunt me till I am dead.”

The good dame answered, “O, David Bell!
Why will ye be ringing your own heart’s knell?
For I tell ye this, that I know full well--
The blesséd Father, who loves us all,
Who notices even a sparrow’s fall,
Is never deaf to His children’s call;
His love is our light
In the darkest night:
Just turn to _that_ sunshine, and all is right.”

“In this very grave did I lay to rest,
With his pale hands folded upon his breast,
The one of all others I loved the best.
And then, though my heart in its anguish yearned,
My face to the sunshine I ever turned,
And thus a great lesson of life I learned;
Which you, too, will find,
If you will but mind,
That thus, all life’s shadows are cast behind.”

He gazed in her earnest face as she spoke,
And then a light o’er his features broke,
As if new life in his soul awoke.
There was something so bright in that summer day,
And the cheerful language of Goody Gay,
That his morbid fancies were charmed away;
And he said, “I will try,
For it may be, that I
Shall escape this shadow before I die.”

He turned him around on the grassy knoll,
And flush o’er his forehead and into his soul
The warmth of the gladdening sunshine stole.
The good dame lifted a willow bough,
And gently laid her hand on his brow--
“Say, David, where is your shadow now?
The shadow has fled,
But ye are not dead.
Look up to the sunshine, man! Hold up your head!”

Still athwart the grave did the shadow lay,
But the face of David was turned away,
And lifted up to the sun’s clear ray.
Then the light of truth on his spirit fell,
Breaking forever the magic spell
That darkened the vision of David Bell.
His trial was past;
And the shadow, at last,
Behind him there, on the grave was cast.

O, ye! who toil o’er your earthly way,
With your faces turned from the truth’s clear ray,
Consider the counsel of Goody Gay.
Though shadows should haunt you as black as night,
Be faithful and firm to your highest light,
_And face the sunshine with all of your might!_
Keep a cheerful mind,
And at length you will find
That the grave, and life’s shadows, all lie behind.

HESTER VAUGHN.

[Hester Vaughn was tried for the crime of infanticide. She was
convicted, and sentence of death passed upon her. Subsequently, by
the efforts of benevolent individuals, and the pressure of public
opinion, her sentence was commuted to imprisonment for life. Susan
A. Smith, M. D., of Philadelphia, who visited her in prison, and
was chiefly instrumental in obtaining her reprieve, gives the
following statement in relation to the circumstances attendant upon
her alleged crime: “She was deserted by her husband, who knew she
had not a relative in America. She rented a third-story room in
this city (Philadelphia), from a German family, who understood very
little English. She furnished this room, found herself in food and
fuel for three months on twenty dollars. She was taken sick in this
room at midnight, on the 6th of February, and lingered until
Saturday morning, the 8th, when her child was born. She told me she
was nearly frozen, and fainted or went to sleep for a long time.
Through all this period of _agony_ she was _alone_, without
_nourishment_ or _fire_, with her door unfastened. It has been
asserted that she confessed her guilt. I can solemnly say in the
presence of Almighty God that she never confessed guilt to me, and
stoutly affirms that no such word ever passed her lips.”]

NOW by the common weal and woe,
Uniting each with all;
And by the snares we may not know,
Until we blindly fall--
Let every heart by sorrow tried,
Let every _woman_ born,
Feel that her cause stands side by side
With that of Hester Vaughn.

A woman, famished for the love
All hearts so deeply crave,
Whose only hope was Heaven above,
To succor and to save;
With only want, and woe, and care,
To greet her child unborn;
A weary burden, hard to bear,
Was life to Hester Vaughn.

No friend, no food, no fire, no light,
And face to face with death,
She struggled through the weary night,
With anguish in each breath;
Till that frail life which shared her own,
Had perished ere the morn,
And left her to the hearts of stone,
That judged poor Hester Vaughn.

Who was it, that refused to draw
A lesson from the time,
And in the name of human law,
Pronounced her grief a crime?
Was her accuser, cold and stern,
_A man of woman born_,
Whose _debt_ to woman could not earn
Some grace for Hester Vaughn?

The word of judgment is not sure,
To wealth and station high,
But that she was _alone_ and _poor_,
Was she condemned to die.
O God of justice! for whose grace
The servile worldlings fawn,
Has not thy love a hiding-place
For such as Hester Vaughn?