Chapter I: HAVE come from the heart of all natural things, (2)

Come to the bar of Judgment, come,
Ye favored ones of earth,
And let your haughty lips be dumb,
So boastful of your worth.
What virtues, or what noble deeds,
_Your_ faithless lives adorn,
That thus by laws, or lifeless creeds,
You sentence Hester Vaughn?

What countless crimes, what guilt untold,
What depths of sin and shame,
Are gilded by your lying gold,
Or hidden by a name!
Ye pave your social hells with skulls
Of Infants yet unborn;
Then virtuous wrath suspicion lulls,
And crushes Hester Vaughn.

Ye, who your secret sins confess,
Before the Eternal Throne--
Adulterer and Adulteress!
What mercy have _ye_ shown?
For place and power, for gems and gold,
Ye give your souls in pawn,
But Heaven’s fair gates will first unfold
To such as Hester Vaughn.

The “mills of God that grind so slow,”
Will “grind exceeding small;”
And time, at length, will clearly show
The want or worth of all.
Distinctions will not always be
With such precision drawn,
Between the proud of high degree
And such as Hester Vaughn.

Through Moyamensing’s prison bars,[2]
She counts each weary day,
Or ’neath the calmly watching stars,
She wakes to weep and pray.
Thank God! for her in heaven above,
A brighter day will dawn,
And those who judge all hearts in love,
Will welcome Hester Vaughn.

SONG OF THE SPIRIT CHILDREN.

LET us sing the praise of Love--
Holy Spirit! Heavenly Dove!
Bringing on its blesséd wings
Life to all created things.
Wheresoe’er its light is shed,
Sorrow lifts its drooping head,
And the tears of grief that start
Turn to sunshine in the heart.
Love divine,
All things are thine!
Every creature seeks thy shrine.
And thy boundless blessings fall
With an equal love on all.

Let us sing the praise of Love,
Everywhere--around, above;
Watching with its starry eyes,
From the blue of boundless skies,
Heeding when the lowly call,
Mindful of a sparrow’s fall,
Writing on the flower-wreathed sod,
“God is love, and love is God.”
Love divine,
All things are thine!
Every creature seeks thy shrine!
And thy boundless blessings fall
With an equal love on all.

Let us sing the praise of Love--
Fairest of all things above.
How its blesséd sunshine lies
In the light of loving eyes!
And when words are all too weak,
How its deeds of mercy speak!
They who learn to love aright,
Pass from darkness into light.
Love divine,
All things are thine!
Every creature seeks thy shrine!
And thy boundless blessings fall
With an equal love on all.

Let us sing the praise of Love--
Shepherd of the lambs above,
Nothing can forbid, that we
Come in trusting love to Thee.
Fold us closely to Thy heart,
Make us of Thyself a part;
All the heaven our souls have known,
We have found in Thee alone.
Love divine,
All things are thine!
Every creature seeks thy shrine!
And thy boundless blessings fall
With an equal love on all.

HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP.

NIGHT drops her mantle from the skies,
And from her home of peace above,
She watches with her starry eyes,
As with a tender mother’s love.
The sounds of toil and strife are stilled,
And in the silence calm and deep,
The word of promise is fulfilled--
“He giveth his belovéd sleep.”

The weary soul oppressed with care,
The young, the old, the strong, the weak,
The rich, the poor, the brave, the fair,
Alike the common blessing seek.
The child sleeps on its mother’s breast,
The broken-hearted cease to weep,
For answering to the prayer for rest,
“He giveth his belovéd sleep.”

Beneath the churchyard’s sod there lies
Full many a weary form at rest,
With death’s calm slumber in the eyes,
And pale hands folded on the breast.
O ye who bend above the sod,
And tears of silent anguish weep,
Lean with a firmer faith on God--
“He giveth his belovéd sleep,”--

Sleep for the eye whose light has fled,
Sleep for the weary heart and hand;
But not the sleep of those who tread
The green hills of “the better land.”
No restless nights of pain are theirs,
No weary watch for morn they keep,
But through release from mortal cares,
“He giveth his belovéd sleep.”

Theirs is that sweet, exceeding peace,
Where love makes every duty blest,
Where anxious cares and longings cease,
And labor in itself is rest.
O, we will trust the power above
The treasures of our hearts to keep,
Safe folded in his arms of love,
“He giveth _our_ belovéd sleep.”

THE FAMISHED HEART.

The following poem was given at the conclusion of a lecture upon
“Jesus the Medium, and Socrates the Philosopher.”

“A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another.”

JOHN xiii. 34.

O YE! upon whose favored shrine
Love hath a rich libation poured--
Who, even as a thing divine,
Are fondly worshiped and adored--
Spare but one kindly thought for those
Who stand in loneliness apart,
Worn by that weariest of woes,
The hopeless hunger of the heart.

As deadly as the dagger’s thrust,
Envenomed as a serpent’s fangs,
It eats like slow, corroding rust,
And lengthens out in lingering pangs.
Think not with careless jest or smile
To pass this wasting sorrow by;
For countless hearts attest the while,
That thus, alas! too many die.

I once was of the earth like you;
I loved, and hoped, and feared as well,
But on my heart the kindly dew
Of fond affection never fell.
An orphan in my early years,
Mine was a hard and cheerless lot,
For I was doomed, with prayers and tears,
To seek for love and find it not.

A bird upon a stormy sea,
A lamb without a sheltering fold,
A vine with no supporting tree,
A blossom blighted by the cold,--
The warmth of kindly atmospheres
Gave to my life no quickened start;
Love’s sunshine melted not to tears
The drifted sorrows of my heart.

Fresh from the innocence of youth,
I entered on the rude world’s strife,
But evermore this venomed tooth
Was gnawing at the root of life.
O, I was but a thing of dust!
And what should save me from my fall?
The tempter whispered, “Lawless lust
Is better than no love at all!”

Then with a flinty face I turned,
Defiant of the social ban,
For my poor, famished nature yearned
For e’en such sympathy from man.
But no! I heard, as from above,
This truth that many learn too late,
That man’s unhallowed, selfish love,
Is far more cruel than his hate.

I shrank from Passion’s burning breath,
Those sensuous lips and eyes of flame,
And from that furnace fire of death
My outraged heart unblemished came.
But darker, deeper grew the night
That closed around my suffering soul,
And Fate’s black billows, flecked with white,
O’er all my being seemed to roll.

At length, within a maniac’s cell,
I moaned and muttered day by day,
Till, like a loathsome thing, I fell
From human consciousness away.
That nightmare dream of life was brief,
For horror choked my struggling breath,
And my poor heart, with love and grief,
Was famished even unto death.

Unconscious of my spirit’s change,
Long did I linger near the earth,
Until a being, kind, though strange,
Recalled me to my conscious worth.
From thence I seemed to be transformed,
Renewed as by redeeming grace,
And then my soul the purpose formed--
To seek “the Saviour of the race.”

My aspirations served to bear
My earnest spirit swift away,
Until a heaven, serene and fair,
My onward progress seemed to stay.
I came where two immortals trod,
In friendly converse, side by side;
“O, lead me to the Son of God,
That I may worship him!” I cried.

One turned--and from his aspect mild
A benison of love was shed--
“O, say, whom do you seek, dear child?
We all are sons of God,” he said.
“Nay, nay!” I cried, “not such I mean!
But him who died on Calvary--
The humble-hearted Nazarene!”
He meekly answered, “_I am he!_”

“O, then, as sinful Mary knelt,
In tearful sorrow, at thy feet,
So does my icy nature melt,
And her sweet reverence I repeat.
O God! O Christ! O Living All!
‘Thou art the Life, the Truth, the Way’;
Lo! at thy feet I humbly fall--
Cast not my sinful soul away!”

“Poor bleeding heart! poor wounded dove!”
In tones of gentleness, he said:
“How hast thou famished for that love
Which is indeed ‘the living bread.’
Kneel not to me; the Power Divine,
Than I, is greater, mightier far;
His glories lesser lights outshine,
As noonday hides the brightest star.”

“You died for all the world!” I cried,
“And therefore do I bend the knee.”
“My friend,”[3] he answered, “at my side,
Long ere I suffered, died for me.
He drained for man the poisoned cup,
I gave my body to the cross,
But when the sum is counted up,
Great is our gain, and small our loss.

“Not thus would I be deified,
Or claim the homage that men pay;
But he who takes me for his guide,
Makes me his Life, his Truth, his Way.
O, heaven shall not descend to man,
Nor man ascend to heaven above,
Till he shall see Salvation’s plan
Is written in the law of love.

“Dear sister! let your fears depart--
I have no power to bid you live,
But I can feed your famished heart
Upon the love I freely give.
Mine are the hearts that men condemn,
Or crush in their ambitious strife,
And through my love I am to them
‘The Resurrection and the Life.’”

He raised me gently from his feet,
And laid my head upon his breast.
O God! how calm, how pure and sweet,
How more than peaceful was that rest!
I feel that blesséd presence yet--
It fills me with a joy serene--
Nor have I hungered since I met
The gentle-hearted Nazarene.

THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE.

The following poem, given under the inspiration of Mrs. Hemans, is
a reversion of the ideas contained in a poem composed by her in
earth life, entitled “The Hour of Death.”

“Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath,
And stars to set--but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!”

LEAVES have their glad recall,
And blossoms open to the South wind’s breath,
And stars that set shall rise again, for all,
All things shall triumph o’er the Spoiler--Death.

Day was not made for care--
Eve brings bright angels to the joyous hearth--
Night comes with dreams of peace, and visions fair
Of those whom Death could conquer not on earth.

When, in the festive hour,
Death mingles poison with the ruby wine,
Life also comes with overwhelming power,
Changing the deadly draught to life divine.

Youth and the opening rose
May vanish from the outward sight away,
But Life their inward beauty shall disclose,
And rob the haughty Spoiler of his prey.

Leaves have their glad recall,
And blossoms open to the South wind’s breath,
And stars that set shall rise again, for all,
All things shall triumph o’er the Spoiler--Death.

We know that yet again
Our loved and lost shall cross the Summer sea,
Bearing with them the sheaves of golden grain,
Which they have harvested, O Life! with thee.

Thy breath is in the gale
Whose kiss unseals the violet’s azure eye;
And though the roses in our path grow pale,
We know that all things change, they do not die.

Wherever man may roam,
Thy presence, viewless as the Summer air,
Meets him abroad, or in his peaceful home,
And when Death calls him forth, thou, too, art there.

Thou art where soul meets soul,
Or where earth’s noblest fall in battle strife;
But Death, the Spoiler, yields to thy control;
Forevermore thou art the conqueror, Life.

Leaves have their glad recall,
And blossoms open to the South wind’s breath,
And stars that set shall rise again, for all,
All things shall triumph o’er the Spoiler--Death.

REFORMERS.

WHERE have the world’s great heroes gone,
The champions of the Right,
Who, with their armor girded on,
Have passed beyond our sight?
Are they where palms immortal wave,
And laurels crown the brow?
Or was the victory thine, O Grave?
Where are they? Answer thou.

We shudder at the silence dread,
That renders no reply--
O, dust! from whence the soul hath fled,
Thou canst not hear our cry.
The violet, o’er their mouldering clay,
Looks meekly from the sod,
But tells not of the hidden way
Their angel feet have trod.

Where are they, Death? thou mighty one!
To some far land unknown,
Beyond the stars, beyond the sun,
Have their bright spirits flown?
Their hearts were strong through Truth and Right,
Life’s stormy tide to stem.
O Death! thou conqueror of might!
What need hadst thou of them?

The earth is green with martyrs’ graves,
On hill, and plain, and shore,
And the great ocean’s sounding waves
Sweep over thousands more.
For us they drained life’s bitter cup,
And dared the battle strife;
Where are they, Death? O, render up
The secret of their life!

We listen--to our earnest cries
No answer is made known,
Save the “Resurgam”--I _shall_ rise!
Carved on the burial stone.
O Grave! O Death! thou canst not keep
The spark of Life Divine;
They have no need of rest or sleep;
Nay, Death, they are not thine!

Where are they? O Creative Soul!
To whom no name is given,
Whose presence fills the boundless whole,
Whose love alone is heaven,
Through all the long, eternal hours
What toils do they pursue?
Are their great souls still linked with ours,
To suffer and to do?

Lo! how the viewless air around
With quickening life is stirred,
And from the silences profound
Leaps forth the answering word,
“We live--not in some distant sphere
Life’s mission to fulfill;
But, joined with faithful spirits here,
We love and labor still.

No laurel wreath, no waving palm,
No royal robes are ours,
But evermore, serene and calm,
We use life’s noblest powers.
Toil on in hope, and bravely bear
The burdens of your lot;
Great, earnest souls your labors share;
They will forsake you not.”

MR. DE SPLAE.

IT may seem a strange question, good people, but say,
Did you never hear tell of one Mr. De Splae?
A man who made up for the lack of good sense
By a wondrous amount of mere show and pretense;
Puffed up with conceit like an airy balloon,
He was hard to approach as the “man in the moon,”
Save when for some _purpose_ it came in his way,
And then, O how gracious was Mr. De Splae!

A sly politician, a popular man,
When all things went smoothly he marshaled the van;
But when there was aught like a failure to fear,
He quickly deserted or fell to the rear.
His speech for the people went “gayly and glib,”
While he drew his support from the National crib;
But when an assessment or tax was to pay,
O, how outraged and angry was Mr. De Splae!

He smoked, and he chewed, and he drank, and he swore;
But then every man whom the ladies adore,
Is prone to these failings--some more and some less,
Which are all overlooked in a man of address.
It also was whispered that he had betrayed
The too trusting faith of an innocent maid;
But the ladies all blamed _her_ for going astray,
While they pardoned and petted--“dear Mr. De Splae.”

There was good Mr. Honest, who lived but next door,
He was true, and substantial, and sound to the core;
He had made it the rule of his life, from his youth,
To shun all evasions and speak the plain truth;
But _the ladies_--who always are judges, you know,
Declared him to be a detestable beau--
Not worthy of mention within the same day,
With that _pink of perfection_--“dear Mr. De Splae.”

Withal he was pious--perhaps you will smile,
And ask how he happened the church to beguile;
Why, the churches accept men for better or worse,
If there’s only a plenty of cash in the purse.
Gold still buys remission as freely and fast,
As it did in the Catholic Church in the past.
’Tis the same thing right over, and that was the way,
That the church swallowed smoothly “_good_ Mr. De Splae.”

O, you ought to have heard him when leading in prayer!
How he flattered the Father of All for his care,
And confessed he was sinful a thousand times o’er,
Which ’twas morally certain the Lord knew before.
The ladies responded in sweet little sighs,
With their elegant handkerchiefs pressed to their eyes,
But the pure, unseen spirits turned sadly away
From the loud-mouthed devotions of Mr. De Splae.

O, short-sighted mortal! Poor Mr. De Splae!
His mask of deception was molded in clay,
And when his external in death was let fall,
What he was, without seeming, was known unto all.
His garment of patches--his flimsy disguise--
Which had won him distinction in other men’s eyes,
Was “changed in a twinkling”--ay, vanished away,
Leaving nothing to boast of to Mr. De Splae.

Ah, a great reputation, a title, or name,
Oft brings its possessor to sorrow and shame;
But a _character_, founded in goodness and worth,
Outlasts all the perishing glories of earth.
O’er the frailties of nature, and changes of time,
It rises majestic, in beauty sublime,
Till the weak and faint-hearted are cheered by its ray,
Far above all mere seeming and empty display.

WILL IT PAY?

Men may say what they will
Of the Author of Ill,
And the wiles of the Devil that tempt them astray,
But there’s something far worse--
A more terrible curse--
It is selling the Truth for the sake of the pay.

Like Judas of old,
For silver or gold,
Man often has bartered his conscience away,
Has walked in disguise,
And has trafficked in lies,
If the prospect was good that the business would pay.

If a fortune is made
By cheating in trade,
It is seldom, if ever, men question the way;
But they make it a rule
That a man is a fool
Who strives to make justice and honesty pay.

An instance more clear
Could never appear,
Than was seen in the life of old Nicholas Gray,
Who ne’er made a move,
In religion or love,
Unless he was sure that the venture would pay.

He built him a house
That would scarce hold a mouse,
Where he managed to live in a miserly way,
Till he said, “On my life,
I will take me a wife;
It is running a risk--but I think it will pay.”

Then he opened a store,
Whose fair, tempting door,
Led sure and direct to destruction’s broad way.
For liquor he sold,
To the young and the old,
To the poor and the wretched, and all who could pay.

A woman once came,
And in God’s holy name,
She prayed him his terrible traffic to stay,
That her husband might not
Be a poor drunken sot,
And spend all his wages for what would not pay.

Old Nicholas laughed,
As his whisky he quaffed,
And he said, “If your husband comes hither to-day,
I will sell him his dram,
And I don’t care a--clam
How _you_ are supported if _I_ get my pay.”

So he prospered in sin,
And continued to win
The wages of death in this terrible way,
Till a Constable’s raid
Put an end to his trade,
And closed up his business as well as the pay.

To church he then went,
With a pious intent
Of “getting religion”--as some people say--
For he said, “It comes cheap,
And costs nothing to keep,
And from close observation I think it will pay.”

But the tax and the tithe
Made old Nicholas writhe,
And he thought that “the plate” came too often his way;
So he soon fell from grace,
And made vacant his place,
For he said, “I perceive that religion don’t pay.”

Still striving to thrive,
And thriving to strive,
His attention was turned a political way;
But he could not decide
Which party or side
Would be the most likely to prosper or pay.

He was puzzled, and hence
He sat on the fence,
Prepared in an instant to jump either way;
But it fell to his fate
To jump just too late,
And he said in disgust, “This of _all_ things don’t pay.”

Year passed after year,
And there did not appear
A spark of improvement in Nicholas Gray,
For his morals grew worse
With the weight of his purse,
As he managed to make his rascality pay.

At length he fell ill;
So he drew up his will,
Just in time to depart from his mansion of clay,
And he said to old Death,
With his last gasp of breath,
“Don’t hunt for my soul, for I know it won’t pay.”

O, ’tis sad to rehearse,
In prose or in verse,
The faults and the follies that lead men astray.
For gold is but dross,
And a terrible loss,
When conscience and manhood are given in pay.

Then be not deceived,
Though men have believed
That ’tis lawful to sin in a general way,
But stick to the right
With all of your might,
For Truth is eternal, and always will pay.

THE LIVING WORD.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the
Word was God.”

“And the Word was made flesh and dwelt _in men_.”

ETERNAL, Self-existent Soul!
From whom Life’s issues take their start,
Thou art the undivided Whole,
Of whom each creature forms a part.
Thy boundless being’s distant reach,
Our finite vision may not see,
But this we know, that each with each,
We live and move alone in Thee.

“In the beginning was the Word”--
The Word, as present now, as then,
Which, in the heart of Nature, stirred
“The Life which was the light of men.”
Through Chaos and Confusion’s night
Streamed forth the light of Love divine,
And lit along Creation’s hight,
Unnumbered fires in glittering line.

Earth’s fiery heart, with battle shocks,
Beat fiercely in her granite breast,
Leaving on scarred and blackened rocks
The record of her wild unrest.
Rich ores in molten currents swept--
Like fire within her veins they ran--
While in the womb of Nature slept
The embryo prophecy of man.

Down deep, the elements, like gnomes,
Beside their flaming forges wrought,
To fashion shapes, and future homes
For the embodiment of Thought.
The wild winds roared--the raging floods
Tossed their defiant waves on high,
While from the old, primeval woods,
The chorus thundered to the sky.

The broadcast, wondrous Encrinites
Opened their breathing lily bells,
While Ammonites and Trilobites
Paved pathless spaces with their shells.
The coral Polyp, ’neath the wave,
Wrought in the great progressive plan,
By which the lesser creature’s grave
Built up the future home of man.

The slumbering Iguanodon[4]
Lay reeking in mephitic damp--
The Mylodon and Mastodon
Startled the forests with their tramp.
Gigantic ferns, like feathery palms,
Nodded in silence to the trees,
Whose royal crests and stalwart arms
Tossed like the waves of stormy seas.

Thus on, still on the current rolled--
The light of countless mornings shone;
And radiant sunsets robed in gold,
Swept down the gulfs of years unknown.
At length, with beasts, and birds, and flowers,
Creation seemed a perfect whole;
Then God and Nature joined their powers,
And man became a living soul.

O Mother Nature! Father God!
How wondrous is the work we trace!
Man fashioned from the senseless clod,
Yet filled with life’s divinest grace.
Nor is that form of earthly mold
The limit of his life to be;
Forth from the mortal will unfold
The germ of immortality.

For even as through countless throes,
And travail pains, the mighty plan
Of God in Nature slowly rose,
To consummate its aims in man,
Thus onward still the current rolls,
The spirit with the flesh at strife,
Until, at length, all living souls
Are quickened from the inmost life.

Across the broad, unfathomed sea,
That breaks upon the shores of time,
The promise of the _yet to be_
Comes like a prophecy sublime.
The purple gloom, that like a veil
Rests on that ever swelling tide,
Full oft reveals a friendly sail,
With tidings from the further side.

O soul of man! to conscious power
From elements of death outwrought,
The Living Word forecast thine hour,
And found the dwelling-place it sought.
High in the heavens forevermore,
The stars of truth eternal shine;
Sail on, O man, from shore to shore;
The power that guides thee is divine.

In the beginning was the Word--
The Word as present now as then--
And by its quickening power is stirred
New life within the souls of men.
Thus on, still on, the current rolls,
Through daisies blooming on the sod,
Through creeping things, though living souls,
Through “quickened spirits” up to God.

HYMN TO THE SUN.

O FOUNTAIN of beauty, of gladness and light,
Whose pathway is set in the infinite hight,
Whose light hath no shadow, whose day hath no night!

We know not thy birthplace, O wonderful one!
We count not the ages through which thou hast run,
But we render thee praises, O life-giving Sun.

All day the glad Earth in thy loving embrace,
Arrayed by thy bounty in garments of grace,
Lifts up to thy glances her beautiful face.

And at night, when her children need silence and rest,
With the light of her starry-eyed sisterhood blest,
She sleeps like a bride on thy cherishing breast.

When the skylark springs up at the coming of morn,
When the golden fringed curtains of night are withdrawn,
Then blushing with beauty the day is new born.

And the pulses of Nature in harmony bound,
To the waves of thy glory which move without sound,
And sweep unimpeded through spaces profound.

Ay, the life-tide that leaps in the bird or the flower--
The rainbow that gleams through the drops of the shower--
O wonderful artist! are born of thy power.

And the rush of the whirlwind, the roar of the deep,
The cataract’s thunder, the avalanche-sweep,
Are thy forces majestic, aroused from their sleep.

Shall we wonder, that filled with devotion untold,
The awe-stricken Parsee adored thee of old,
Nor dreamed that One greater thy glory controlled?

And He, the Eternal, the Ancient of Days--
Whose splendors are veiled by inscrutable ways--
Did he frown on such blindness, or envy thee praise?

O Sun! in the light of whose presence we see,
We ask,--canst thou tell us?--what caused us to be?
And how are we linked to creation and thee?

We must perish--but thou, by thy wonderful powers,
Wilt rescue from darkness these bodies of ours,
And fashion them over to verdure and flowers.

But the jewel of beauty in life’s golden bowl--
O, answer us--say--dost thou also control
That Infinite Essence, the life of the soul?

There is doubt, there is darkness and fear in our cry:
Dost thou drink up the pearl of our lives when we die?
We listen--but silence alone makes reply.

It is well--for our spirits may know by the sign,
That a might hath evoked thee far greater than thine,
And we must seek Truth at life’s innermost shrine.

That Centre of Being, transcending all thought,
Whose might hath perfection of beauty outwrought,
Returns the great answer of peace which we sought.

And we know, when the race of the planets is run,
And the day shall no longer behold thee, O Sun!
Our souls shall find light with that Infinite One.

O Source of all Being! whose name everywhere
Is sung in hosannas, or murmured in prayer,
We trust, unreserving, our souls to thy care.

GREATHEART AND GIANT DESPAIR.

“Then said Mr. Greatheart, ‘I have a commandment to resist sin, to
overcome evil, to fight the good fight of faith; and I pray, with
whom should I fight this good fight, if not with Giant Despair?’

“Now Giant Despair, because he was a giant, thought no man could
overcome him; and again thought he, ‘Since heretofore I have made a
conquest of angels, shall Greatheart make me afraid?’ So he
harnessed himself and went out. Then they fought for their lives,
and Giant Despair was brought to the ground, but was loth to die.
He struggled hard, and had, as they say, as many lives as a cat;
but Greatheart was his death, for he left him not till he had
severed his head from his shoulders.”

BUNYAN’S PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.

HAVE you heard of that marvelous story,
That wonderful romance of old,
The story of Christian, the pilgrim,
So quaintly and earnestly told?
’Tis a curious dream, with a beautiful gleam
Of light through its mystery thrown;
’Tis a picture of life, where the Soul in its strife
With the demons of darkness is shown.
Nor yet have the indolent ages
Its mystical meaning outgrown.

Dark threads from the loom of old Error
Are shot through its fabric of light,
Yet its blendings of Beauty and Terror
Are wrought with a masterly might.
The gleam and the glare of Destruction are there,
With demons the soul to appall;
And the pitfalls of Death, with their sulphurous breath,
Where the weak and unwary must fall.
But, ah! shall we call these mere fancies?
Life yet hath a meaning for all.

And there in that wonderful region,
With battlements blackened and bare,
To the sorrow of Hopeful and Christian,
Stood the Castle of Giant Despair;
For they ventured to stray in a perilous way,
Where the Giant was searching about,
Who seized on these men, and into a den,
’Neath his gloomy old Castle of Doubt,
He thrust the poor sorrowful pilgrims,
’Neath that dismal old Castle of Doubt.

It was said that he came “with a cudgel,”
And he beat them from day to day,
Till they chanced on “The Key of Promise,”
When they fled from his wrath away.
Then with friendly design they made ready a sign,
And they placed it with pious care
O’er the perilous way where they went astray,
That pilgrims might ever beware
Of the dangers of Doubting Castle,
And the wrath of old Giant Despair.

Thereafter came Greatheart the valiant,
Unrivaled in courage and might,
The friend of the weak and defenseless,
Who had pledged his good sword to the Right.
There, boldly defiant, he challenged the Giant
From his stronghold of Death to come out;
And Giant Despair, with an insolent air,
Looked down from the Castle of Doubt,
And cried, “I will slay thee, vile braggart,
And put all thy forces to rout.”

Then in haste he came down from his Castle,
With his terrible breastplate of fire,
And straight upon Greatheart the valiant,
He rushed with impetuous ire.
But nothing dismayed, with his keen, trusty blade
Greatheart smote the old Giant amain,
Firm, fearless, and fast, until vanquished at last,
He struggled and died on the plain.
Yet ’tis said, that far down in the ages,
He came to existence again.

Do you deem this an idle old story,
Dragged out from the dust of the Past?
Alas! though so time-worn and hoary,
Its truths in the Present stand fast.
High up in the air, all blackened and bare,
Still rises the Castle of Doubt,
And the Giant, I trow, should you seek for him now,
You would find him still prowling about;
And the souls who go in to his Castle,
Are more than the souls who come out.

With the cudgel of Old Tradition,
Does he beat them from day to day,
And he carefully hides from their vision
The Light of the Present away.
The angels above, with compassionate love,
A plan for their rescue devise;
But the Giant cries out from his Castle of Doubt,
“Beware of delusion and lies!”
So they shrink back again to their prison,
And fear through the Truth to grow wise.

O, where is our Greatheart the valiant!
A terrible warfare to wage
On this old Theological Giant,
The Doubt and Despair of this age?
Let us rise, one and all, when our leader shall call,
And each for the conflict prepare;
We will march round about that old Castle of Doubt,
With our “Banner of Light” on the air,
And raze to its very foundations
The stronghold of Giant Despair.

“THE ORACLE.”

LIKE the roar of distant cataracts,
Like the slumbrous roll of waves,
Like the night-wind in the willows,
Sighing over lonely graves,
Like oracular responses,
Echoing from their secret caves,
Comes a sound of solemn meaning
From the spirits gone before;
Comes a terrible “_awake thou!_”
Startling man from sleep once more,
Like a wild wave beating, breaking,
On this Life’s tempestuous shore.

In Earth’s desolated temples
Have the oracles grown dumb,
And the priests, with lifeless rituals,
All man’s noblest powers benumb;
But a solemn voice is speaking--
Speaking of the yet to come.
There will be a chosen priestess,
Springing from the lap of Ease,
Hastening to the soul’s Dodona,
Where, amid the sacred trees,
She will hear divine responses,
Whispered in the passing breeze.

She will be a meek-faced woman,
Chastened by Affliction’s rod,
Who hath worshiped at the altar
Of the spirit’s “unknown God;”
Who in want, and woe, and weakness,
All alone the wine-press trod,
Till the salt sea-foam of Sorrow
Whitened on her quivering lips,
Till her heart’s full tide of anguish
Flooded to her finger-tips,
And her soul sank down in darkness,
Smitten by a dread eclipse.

“Pure in heart,” and “poor in spirit,”
Hers will be that inner life,
Which Earth’s martyr-souls inherit,
Who are conquerors in the strife.
Born of God they walk with Angels,
Where the air with love is rife.
Men will call her “Laureola,”[5]
And her pale, meek brow will crown;
But with holiest aspirations,
She will shun the world’s renown,
And before the Truth’s high altar,
Cast Earth’s votive offerings down.

Men will sit like little children
At her feet, high truths to learn,
And for love, the pure and holy,
She will cause their hearts to yearn;
Then the innocence of Eden
To their spirits shall return.
Very fearless in her freedom,
She will scorn to simply please;
But the fiercest lion-spirits
She will lead with quiet ease.
Calm, but earnest, firm and truthful,
She will utter words like these:--

“Wherefore, O ye sons of Sorrow!
Do ye idly sit and borrow
Care and trouble for the morrow--
Filling up your cup with woe?
Leave, O, leave your visions dreary!
Hush your doleful miserére!
See the lilies how they grow--

“Bending down their heads so lowly,
As though heaven were far too holy,
Growing patiently and slowly
To the end that God designed.
In their fragrance and their beauty,
Filling up their sphere of duty--
Each is perfect in its kind.

“Deeper than all sense of seeing
Lies the secret source of being,
And the soul with Truth agreeing,
Learns to live in thoughts and deeds.
‘For the life is more than raiment,’
And the Earth is pledged for payment
Unto man, for all his needs.

“Nature is your common mother,
Every living man your brother;
Therefore love and serve each other;
Not to meet the law’s behest,
But because through cheerful giving,
You will learn the art of living,
And to love and serve is best.

“Life is more than what man fancies--
Not a game of idle chances,
But it steadily advances
Up the rugged steeps of Time,
Till man’s complex web of trouble--
Every sad hope’s broken bubble,
Hath a meaning most sublime.

“More of practice, less profession,
More of firmness, less concession,
More of freedom, less oppression
In your Church and in your State;
More of life, and less of fashion,
More of love, and less of passion--
That will make you good and great.

“When true hearts, divinely gifted,
From the chaff of Error sifted,
On their crosses are uplifted,
Shall your souls most clearly see
That earth’s greatest time of trial
Calls for holy self-denial--
Calls on men to _do_ and _be_.

“But, forever and forever,
Let it be your soul’s endeavor,
Love from hatred to dissever;
And in whatsoe’er ye do--
Won by Truth’s eternal beauty--
To your highest sense of duty
Evermore be firm and true.

“Heavenly messengers descending,
With a patience never ending,
Evermore their strength are lending,
And will aid you lest you fall.
Truth is an eternal mountain--
Love, a never-failing fountain,
Which will cleanse and save you all.”

List to her, ye worn and weary--
Hush your heart-throbs, hold the breath,
Lest ye lose one word of wisdom,
Which the answering spirit saith;
Hear her, O ye blood-stained nations,
In your holocaust of death!
Lo! your oracles have failed you,
In the dust your idols fall,
And a mighty hand is writing
Words of judgment on the wall:
“Ye are weighed within the balance,
And found wanting”--one and all.

Mournful murmurs, direful discords,
Greet you from Destruction’s night,
For Life’s lower stratum, heaving,
Brings long-buried wrongs to light,
And your souls shall find no refuge,
Save with the Eternal Right.
In one grand, unbroken phalanx,
Firm, united, bravely stand,
Faithful in the way of duty,
Ready at the Truth’s command,
And _forever_ let your motto
Be _this_--“GOD AND MY RIGHT HAND!”

MY ANGEL.

OFT from the summer hights of love,
Along the ways of Time,
The pilgrims of this lower sphere
Catch gleams of light sublime,
That stream adown the azure way,
From heaven’s unshadowed clime.

There, on the balmy, golden air,
Celestial music swells,
Like harps Eolian, gently blown,
Or chime of silver bells--
And there my star, my angel love,
My spotless lily dwells.

She came to me, when from my soul
A demon had been cast;
When I had rent the servile chain,
Which long had held me fast,
And stood erect, in conscious power,
A strong, free man at last.

The burnt-out fire-crypts of my life
Had lost their crimson gleam,
And emptied of their baleful glare,
I walked as in a dream,
With one great purpose in my heart,
To _be_ and not to _seem_.

Life’s holiest lesson then was mine,
For when at peace within,
And I had cleansed my erring heart
From its foul taint of sin,
That gentle maiden, pure and sweet,
Like sunshine entered in.

She was my idol--O my God!
Have angel hearts above,
Through their long line of endless life,
Such depth of power to love,
As that with which I folded close,
My tender, trusting dove?

It was not long, for when the flowers
Upon the green hill-side
Closed their bright eyes to wake no more,
My own sweet darling died.
The angels oped the shining door,
And called her from my side.

O, when they laid her form to rest
Beneath the churchyard sod,
I longed to follow in the way
Her angel feet had trod;
For, crushed and bruised, my spirit yearned
To hide itself in God.

Love led me to the inner depth,
Which sorrow had unsealed,
And there I saw the wealth of power
Within my soul concealed--
In that dark, desolating hour,
Life’s meaning stood revealed.

_I knew myself_, and knowing this,
The power to me was given
To bridge across the dark abyss
Between my soul and heaven,
And gather up the golden link
Which seemed so harshly riven.

The angel hand of her I loved
Was gently laid in mine;
She led me, by a path of peace,
To Truth’s eternal shrine,
Where my glad soul will never cease
To worship Love Divine.

Thus have I learned how vain are creeds
Man’s reason to control;
His lesser life supplies its needs
From Life’s majestic Whole.
_Love_ is the guiding star to _Love_,
And _Soul_ must speak to _Soul_.

THE ANGEL OF HEALING.

“They shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.”

FORTH from a region of shadowless calm,
Forth from a garden of spices and balm,
Came a bright angel, an angel of love,
Tenderly bearing a beautiful dove;
Soft as the dew-drops his feet pressed the sod,
So softly no blossom was bruised as he trod.

Down through the realms of the blue summer air,
Floated the angel so gentle and fair--
Down to the grief-stricken bosom of earth,
Whose children must suffer and sin from their birth--
Down where the tears of the mourner are shed,
And wailings of sorrow are heard for the dead.

One moment he listened, as voices of pain
Came up from the hill-side, the valley and plain;
There were voices that pleaded, in accents of grief,
For comfort and healing, for hope and relief.
“God, help me,” he murmured, soft breathing and low,
“To heal all your anguish, ye children of woe.”

Then he folded a child to his cherishing breast,
And tenderly hushed its complainings to rest.
He kissed the pale lids of a mourner’s sad eyes,
Till she saw the fair home of her loved in the skies.
And sorrow, and anguish, and pain, and distress,
Fled away where he entered to comfort and bless.

At length came a mortal, who sought to find rest
From the hopes and the longings that strove in his breast;
For all that the world with its wealth could impart,
Had failed to bring comfort and peace to his heart.
“O, grant my petition, fair angel,” he cried.
“What wouldst thou, O mortal?” the angel replied.

“I ask not for wealth, which would make me a slave;
I ask not a name, to be lost at the grave;
I ask not for glory, for honor, or power;
Or freedom from care through my life’s little hour--
But I ask that the gift which hath made thee divine,
Of comfort, and healing, and strength, may be mine.”

Then the angel uplifted a chalice most fair,
Which seemed to be filled with a balm-breathing air,
And a chrism outpoured on the suppliant’s head,
Whose fragrance like soft wreathing incense out-*spread.
“Go forth,” said the angel, “thy mission fulfill,
With faith in the heart, which gives strength to the will.”

Then lo! in an instant the angel had flown,
And left the glad mortal in silence, alone;
But a token was given that his mission was blest,
When the dove fluttered down and reposed in his breast;
As the prophet of old let his mantle of grace
Float downward to him who should stand in his place.

O Helper! O Healer! whoever thou art,
Let love, like an angel, abide in thy heart.
Let mercy plead low for the sinful and wrong,
Let might, born of justice and right, make thee strong;
Then Help shall descend at thy call from above,
And peace in thy bosom shall rest like a dove.

TRUTH TRIUMPHANT.

O YE who dare not trust the Soul
To guide you in your heavenward way--
Who turn from its divine control,
Blind Superstition to obey--
Know that at length shall come an hour,
When darkness shall be changed to light,
And Truth, majestic in her power,
Shall vindicate her ancient right.

The monstrous blasphemy of creeds
Which represent an angry God,
Who tempts man sorely through his needs,
And meets his failings with a rod--
Eternal wrath, through blood appeased,
The curse of God, salvation’s plan,
Are nightmare visions, which have seized
The slumbering consciousness of man.

Beyond the dim and distant line,
Which bounds the vision of to-day,
Great stars of truth shall rise and shine
With steady and unclouded ray;
And calm, brave souls, who through the night
Have waited patiently and long,
Will see these heralds of the light,
And feel themselves in truth made strong.

Blind Superstition, cowering, sits
Amid the ashes of the past;
While old Tradition, bat-like, flits
Where Time its deepest gloom hath cast.
The bigot, prospering through fraud,
Pays to the church his tithes, and then,
With pious fervor, thanks the Lord
That “he is not like other men.”

The church, by deep dissensions riven,
To man’s progression shuts the door,
And failing thus to enter heaven,
The “poor in spirit” walk before.
The blood of millions on her hands--
She pampers pride and winks at sin--
A whited sepulchre she stands,
Hiding but dead men’s bones within.

We do not ask for forms and creeds,
Or useless dogmas, old or new,
But we _do_ ask for Christian deeds,
With man’s progression full in view.
Let her be first to aid and bless,
And not the first to cast a stone,
The while her robes of righteousness
Are over foul corruptions thrown.

The pure, fresh impulse of to-day,
Which thrills within the human heart,
As time-worn errors pass away,
Fresh life and vigor shall impart.
New hopes, like beauteous strangers, wait
An entrance to man’s willing breast,
And child-like faith unbars the gate,
To welcome in each heavenly guest.

The new must e’er supplant the old,
While Time’s unceasing current flows,
Only new beauties to unfold,
And brighter glories to disclose;
For every crumbling altar-stone
That falls upon the way of time,
Eternal wisdom hath o’erthrown,
To build a temple more sublime.

O ye! who dare not trust the soul
To guide you in the way to heaven,
Remember that the lifeless whole
Is quickened by the hidden leaven;
And they who, fearlessly and free,
The rugged hights of life ascend,
With one united voice agree,
“_It can be trusted to the end_.”

GOOD IN ALL.

’Tis a beautiful thought, by Philosophy taught,
That from all things created some good is out-*wrought;
That each is for use, and not one for abuse,
Which leaves the transgressor no room for excuse.

Thus the great, and the small, and the humblest of all,
To action and duty alike have a call;
And he does the best, who excels all the rest,
In making the lot of humanity blest.

As Jonathan Myer sat one night by the fire,
Watching the flames from the embers expire,
O’er his senses there stole, and into his soul,
A spell of enchantment he could not control.

The wind shook his door, and a terrible roar
In his chimney was heard, like the waves on the shore.
In wonder, amazed, old Jonathan gazed
At the huge oaken back-log as fiercely it blazed.

The flames of his fire leaped higher and higher,
And out of its brightness looked images dire;
Till at length, a great brand straight on end seemed to stand,
And then into human proportions expand.

Old Jonathan said, with a shake of his head,
“There’s nothing in nature I’ve reason to dread,
For my conscience is clear, and I’d not have a fear,
Should Satan himself at this moment appear.”

“Ha! your words shall be tried,” quick the demon replied,
“For, lo! _I am Satan_, here, close by your side.
Men should never defy such a being as I,
For when they least think it, behold I am nigh.”

Said Jonathan Myer, as he stirred up the fire,
“Your face nor your figure I do not admire;
But if that is your style, why, it isn’t worth while
For me to find fault or your Maker revile.

“Now don’t have a fear, lest it should appear
That you’re an intruder--I welcome you here!
So pray take a seat, and warm up your feet,
For I think I have heard that you’re partial to heat.”

“Well, you are either a fool or remarkably cool,”
Said Satan--accepting the low wooden stool--
“But before I depart, I will give you a start
Which will send back the blood with a rush to your heart.”

“Well, and what if you should? It might do me good,
For a shock sometimes helps one--so I’ve understood.
But just here let me say, that for _many_ a day
I’ve been hoping and wishing you’d happen this way.

“So give us your hand, and you’ll soon understand,
What a work in the future for you I have planned.”
Satan’s hand he then seized, which he forcibly squeezed,
At which the arch fiend looked more angry than pleased.

A puzzled surprise looked out of his eyes,
Which was really quite strange for the “Father of Lies.”
“Come,” said he, “this won’t do--_I_ am Satan, not _you_.”
Said Jonathan Myer, “Very true, very true.

“Now don’t get perplexed, excited or vexed,
At what I’m about to present to you next.
Your attention please lend, and you’ll see in the end,
That Jonathan Myer, at least, is your friend.

“I’ve been led to suppose, in spite of your foes,
That you are far better than any one knows.
Now, if there is good, in stock, stone, or wood,
I’m bound to get at it, as every one should.

“So I’ll not have a fear--though you seem sort o’ queer--
But what all your goodness will shortly appear.
Fact--I know that it will, though ’tis mingled with ill.
So--so--don’t get restless--be patient--sit still.

“Now I long since agreed, that there was great need
Of a Devil and Hell in the Orthodox creed.
All things are for use, and none for abuse,
(And the same law applies to a man or a goose.)

“So they’ll keep you in play till the Great Judgment Day,
When the Saviour of sinners will thrust you away.
But then, don’t you see, they and I don’t agree;
So you’ll not be obliged to play Satan to me.

“Even now, in your eyes, does there slowly arise
A look, which no lover of good can despise.
So open your heart and its goodness impart,
For now there’s no need you should practice your art.”

O, strange to relate! all that visage of hate,
Which wore such a fearful expression of late,
Grew gentle and mild as the face of a child,
Ere the springs of its life have with doubt been defiled.

And a voice, soft and low as a rivulet’s flow,
Said gently, “I was but in seeming your foe.
Man ever will find, in himself or his kind,
Either evil or good, as he makes up his mind.

“As God is in all, so he answered your call,
And the evil appearance to you is let fall.
This truth I commend to your soul as a friend,
That evil will _all_ change to good in the end.”

Then Jonathan Myer sat _alone_ by his fire,
Till he saw the last light from the embers expire,
And he thoughtfully said, as he turned toward his bed,
“I will banish all hate and put love in its stead.”

“I will _do_, and not _dream_--I will _be_, and not _seem_,
And the triumph of goodness I’ll take for my theme.
Great Spirit above! I have learned through thy love,
That the Serpent has uses as well as the Dove.”

JOHN ENDICOTT.

“If ye love me, keep my commandments.”--JESUS.

TRUTH hath no need of outward sign,
To hold her calm, resistless sway--
No symbol, howsoe’er divine,
Can rule the conscience of to-day.
And he who, scorning praise or blame,
Stays not to kneel before the cross,
But serves the Truth through flood and flame,
Shall win the crown, nor suffer loss.

Back to the old heroic Past,
With reverent hearts, our gaze we turn--
From souls proved faithful to the last,
A lesson for to-day we learn.
Once more, as from a master’s hand,
Upon life’s canvass glows the scene--
Once more behold that little band
Of valiant men on Salem green.

Had they not left the friends of youth,
Their childhood’s home, their fathers’ graves,
That they might worship God in truth,
And be no more a tyrant’s slaves?
Still followed fast the royal wrath;
And as they marched with measured tread,
Casting its shadow o’er their path,
The tyrant’s flag waved over head.

“Halt!” said the brave John Endicott,
With knitted brow and eyes aflame;
“Halt!--Forward! Ensign Davenport!
Down with that flag! in God’s high name!”
Down drooped the flag, whose folds of blood
Seemed like the Parcæ’s web of fate,
Whereon the cross so long had stood
For tyranny in Church and State.

He raised his hand, and sternly tore
The red cross from its field of blue;
Then nerved with fire his arm upbore,
And held the fragment full in view.
“Now by the homage that we pay
To God the Father, God the Son,
May righteous Heaven approve this day
The deed that my right hand hath done.”

“To Him whose law hath all sufficed,
Be power and glory evermore,
But this cursed sign of Anti-Christ
Shall not profane this hallowed shore.”
One moment--and a hush like death--
Then flashed the fire from every eye,
And like the tempest’s sudden breath,
A shout tumultuous rent the sky.

Those ranks of stern, heroic men,
Who asked no favor, knew no fear,
Could “beard the lion in his den,”
When duty made the pathway clear,
There in the howling wilderness,
In holy triumph did they sing,
“Christ is our refuge in distress,
The Lord of Hosts alone is King.”

Linked, by the lengthening years of time,
To all that grand heroic past,
The mantle of their faith sublime
Is on this generation cast.
Whene’er the cross no longer stands
For freedom, faith, and love divine,
Men tear it down with willing hands,
And worship God without the sign.

John Endicott! John Endicott!
Thine earthly victory is won,
But valiant still, and swerving not,
Thy steadfast soul “is marching on.”
Like thee we would be brave and true,
And fearless in the faith abide,
That souls who nobly dare and do,
Have God and Heaven upon their side.