From dc8f2f98973c0aec2144f548444d31d86cc35a52 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: nfenwick Date: Sat, 8 Feb 2025 07:03:59 -0800 Subject: As captured February 8, 2025 --- 57504-0.txt | 9322 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++------------------------------ 1 file changed, 4661 insertions(+), 4661 deletions(-) (limited to '57504-0.txt') diff --git a/57504-0.txt b/57504-0.txt index 9204041..233a15c 100644 --- a/57504-0.txt +++ b/57504-0.txt @@ -1,4661 +1,4661 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Angel in the Cloud, by Edwin W. (Wiley) Fuller - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Angel in the Cloud - -Author: Edwin W. (Wiley) Fuller - -Release Date: July 14, 2018 [EBook #57504] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANGEL IN THE CLOUD *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - THE ANGEL - IN THE CLOUD - - BY - - EDWIN W. FULLER - - PRIVATELY PRINTED - MCMVII - - - - - _Copyright, 1907 - Sumner Fuller Parham_ - - - - - TO THE - - HALLOWED MEMORY OF MY FATHER, - - WHO, - - EVEN WHILE I WAS GAZING UPON THE GOLDEN CITY - - PASSED WITHIN ITS WALLS, - - THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, - - WITH TEARS. - - - - -PREFACE - - -To those who may favor these pages with perusal, I make this earnest -request: that, if they commence, they will read all. Knowing that the -best mode of dealing with doubts is to state and refute, successively, I -regret that the plan of the present work forces a separation of the -statement and refutation. To read one without the other were to defeat -the object in view; hence my request. - -Many of the subjects of thought are worn smooth with the touch of ages, -so that hope for originality is as slender as the bridge of Al Sirat; -but in the bulrush ark of self-confidence, pitched with Faith, I commit -my first-born to the Nile of public opinion; whether to perish by -crocodile critics, or bask in the palace of favor, the Future, alone, -must determine. May Pharaoh’s daughter find it! - - E. W. F. - -LOUISBURG, Jan. 17th, 1871. - - - - -A NOTE - - -_First published more than thirty-five years ago, in the lifetime of the -poet, THE ANGEL IN THE CLOUD has long since passed not only out of print -but out of the memory of most living men. Of the copies of the original -edition, only few are known to exist. Upon his surviving family is -imposed the obligation, and to them comes the privilege, of rescuing -from the realm of forgotten things these evidences of a graceful and -genuine poetic gift in one whose memory they revere and whose genius -they are unwilling to have die. It is therefore with the sense of -performing a grateful duty that they have caused to be printed this new -edition of Edwin Fuller’s poems, in the hope and belief that others, -like themselves, will value it both as friends of the gentle poet and as -disinterested lovers of good literature._ - -August, 1907. - - - - - THE ANGEL IN THE CLOUD - - - ’Twas noon in August, and the sultry heat - Had driven me from sunny balcony - Into the shaded hall, where spacious doors - Stood open wide, and lofty windows held - Their sashes up, to woo the breeze, in vain. - The filmy lace that curtained them was still, - And every silken tassel hung a-plumb. - The maps and unframed pictures o’er the wall - Gave not a rustle; only now and then - Was heard the jingling sound of melting ice, - Deep in a massive urn, whose silver sides - With trickling dewbeads ran. The little birds, - Up in their cages, perched with open beaks, - And throbbing throats, upon the swaying rings, - Or plashed the tepid water in their cups - With eager breast. My favorite pointer lay, - With lolling tongue, and rapid panting sides, - Beside my chair, upon the matted floor. - All things spoke heat, oppressive heat intense, - Save swallows twittering up the chimney-flue, - Whose hollow flutterings sounded cool alone. - To find relief I seized my hat and book, - And fled into the park. Along a path - Of smoothest gravel, oval, curving white, - Between two rows of closely shaven hedge, - I passed towards a latticed summer-house; - A fairy bower, built in Eastern style, - With spires, and balls, and fancy trellis-work, - O’er which was spread the jasmine’s leafy net, - To snare the straying winds. Within I fell - Upon a seat of woven cane, and fanned - My streaming face in vain. The very winds - Seemed to have fled, and left alone the heat - To rise from parchèd lawn and scorching fields, - Like trembling incense to the blazing god. - The leaves upon the wan and yellow trees - Hung motionless, as if of rigid steel; - And e’en the feath’ry pendula of spray, - With faintest oscillation, dared not wave. - The withered flowers shed a hot perfume, - That sickened with its fragrance; and the bees - Worked lazily, as if they longed to kick - The yellow burdens from their patient thighs, - And rest beneath the ivy parasols. - The butterflies refrained from aimless flight, - And poised on blooms with gaudy, gasping wings. - The fountain scarcely raised its languid jet - An inch above its tube; the basin deigned - A feeble ripple for its tinkling fall, - And rolled the little waves with noiseless beat - Against the marble side. The bright-scaled fish - All huddled ’neath the jutting ledge’s shade, - Where, burnished like their magnet toy types, - They rose and fell as if inanimate; - Or, with a restless stroke of tinted fin, - Turned in their places pettishly around; - While, with each move, the tiny whirlpools spun - Like crystal dimples on the water’s face. - The sculptured lions crouched upon the edge, - With gaping jaws, and stony, fixèd eyes, - That ever on the pool glared thirstily. - Deep in the park, beneath the trees, were grouped - The deer, their noses lowered to the earth, - To snuff a cooler air; their slender feet - Impatient stamping at the teasing flies; - While o’er their heads the branching antlers spread, - A mocking skeleton of shade! A fawn, - Proud of his dappled coat, played here and there, - Regardless of repose; the silver bell, - That tinkled from a band of broidered silk, - Proclaiming him a petted favorite. - Save him alone, all things in view sought rest, - And wearied Nature seemed to yield the strife, - And smold’ring wait her speedy sacrifice. - - The heat grew hotter as I watched its work, - And with its fervor overcome, I rose, - And through the grounds, towards an orchard bent - My faltering steps in full despair of ease. - Down through the lengthened rows of laden trees, - Whose golden-freighted boughs o’erlapped the way, - I hurried till I reached the last confines. - Here stood a gnarléd veteran, now too old - To bear much fruit, but weaving with its leaves - So dense a shade, the smallest fleck of sun - Could not creep through. Beneath it spread a couch - Of velvet moss, fit for the slumbers of a king. - Here prone I fell, at last amid a scene - That promised refuge from the glaring heat. - Beyond me stretched the orchard’s canopy - Of thick, rank foliage, almost drooping down - Upon the green plush carpet underneath. - Close at my feet a crystal spring burst forth, - And rolled its gurgling waters down the glade - Now spreading in a rilling silver sheet - O’er some broad rock, then gath’ring at its base - Into a foamy pool that churned the sand, - And mingling sparks of shining isinglass, - It danced away o’er gleamy, pebbly bed, - Where, midst the grassy nooks and fibrous roots, - The darting minnows played at hide and seek, - Oft fluttering upwards, to the top, to spit - A tiny bubble out, or slyly snap - Th’ unwary little insect hov’ring near; - Till, by its tributes widened to a brook, - It poured its limpid waters undefiled - In to the river’s dun and dirty waves,-- - A type of childhood’s guileless purity, - That mingling with the sordid world is lost. - - Far in the distance, lofty mountains loomed, - Their blue sides trembling in the sultry haze. - From me to them spread varicultured fields, - That formed a patchwork landscape, which deserved - The pencil of a Rembrandt and his skill; - The hardy yellow stubble smoothly shaved, - With boldness lying ’neath the scorching sun; - The suffering corn, with tasselled heads all bowed, - And twisted arms appealing, raised to Heaven; - The meadows faded by the constant blaze; - The cattle lying in the hedge’s shade; - Across the landscape drawn a glitt’ring band, - Where winds the river, like a giant snake, - The ripples flashing like his polished scales. - Above the scene a lonely vulture wheeled, - Turning with every curve from side to side, - As if the fierce rays broiled his dusky wings; - And circling onwards, dwindled to a speck, - And in the distance vanished out of sight! - Complete repose was stamped on everything, - Save where a tireless ant tugged at a crumb, - To drag it o’er th’ impeding spires of moss; - And one poor robin, with her breast all pale - And feather-scarce, hopped wearily along - The streamlet’s edge, with plaintive clock-like chirp, - And searching, found and bore the curling worm, - Up to the yellow-throated brood o’erhead. - Behind the mountains reared the copper clouds - Of summer skies, that whitened as they rose, - Till bleached to snow, they drifted dreamily, - Like gleaming icebergs, through the blue sublime. - And as they, one by one, sailed far away, - Methought they were as ships from Earth to Heaven, - Thus slowly floating to the Eternal Port. - The Thunder’s muttered growl my reverie broke, - And looking toward the West, I saw a storm, - With gloomy wrath, had thrown its dark-blue line - Of breastworks, quiv’ring with each grand discharge - Of its own ordnance, o’er th’ horizon’s verge. - Some time it stood to gloat upon its prey, - Then, girding up its strength, began its march. - Extending far its black gigantic arms, - It grimly clambered up the tranquil sky; - Till, half-way up the arch, its shaggy brows - Scowled down in rage upon the frightened earth; - While through its wind-cleft portals sped the darts, - That brightly hurtled through the sultry air. - And down the mountain-sides the shadow crept, - A dark veil spreading over field and wood, - Thus adding gloom to Nature’s awful hush. - The fleecy racks had fled far to the East, - Where sporting safely in the gilding light, - They mocked the angry monster’s cumbrous speed. - - Then, while I marked its progress, came a train, - Of dark and doubting thoughts into my mind, - And bitterly thus my reflections ran: - Strange is the Providence that rules the world, - That sets the Medean course of Nature’s laws; - Sometimes adapting law to circumstance, - But oftener making law fulfilled a curse. - Yon brewing storm in verdant summer comes, - When vegetation spreads its foliage sails, - That, like a full-rigged ship’s, are easier torn; - Why comes it not in winter, when the trees, - With canvas reefed by Autumn’s furling frosts, - Could toss in nude defiance to the blast? - The murd’rous wind precedes the gentle shower - And ere the suffering grain has quenched its thirst, - It bows the heavy head, alone of worth, - And from the ripening stalk wrings out the life, - While gayly nod the heads of chaff unharmed. - The rank miasma floats in summer-time, - When man must brave its poisoned breath or starve; - It hovers sickliest over richest fields - While over sterile lands the air is pure; - The tallest oak is by the lightning riven, - The hateful bramble on the ground is spared; - The crop man needs demands his constant work, - The weeds alone spring forth without the plow; - The sweetest flowers wear the sharpest thorns, - The deadliest reptiles lurk in fairest paths! - Wherever Nature shows her brightest smile, - ’Tis but a mask to hide her darkest frown. - The tropics seem an Eden of luscious fruits - And flowers, and groves of loveliest birds, and lakes - That mirror their gay plumage flitting o’er; - Where man may live in luxury of thought, - Without the crime of schemes, or curse of toil-- - The tropics seem a Hell, when all with life - Are stifled with the foul sirocco’s breath; - When from the green-robed mountain’s volcan top, - A fire-fountain spouts its blazing jet - Far up against the starry dome of Heaven; - Returning in its vast umbrella shape, - Leaps in red cataracts adown the slope, - Shaves clean the mountain of its emerald hair, - And leaves it bald with ashes on its head. - Below, the valley is a crimson sea, - Whose glowing billows break to white-hot foam; - And as they surge amid the towering trees, - They, tottering, bow forever to the waves; - The leaves and branches, crackling into flame, - Leave only clotted cinders floating there; - The darting birds, their gaudy plumage singed, - Fall fluttering in, with little puffs of smoke. - The fleeing beasts are lapped in, bellowing, - And charred to coal, drift idly with the tide. - The red flood, breaking through the vale, rolls on - Its devious way towards the sea; the glare - Illuminating far its winding track, - As if a devil flew with flaming torch, - Or when an earthquake gapes its black-lined jaws, - And, growling, gulps a city’s busy throng - Into its greedy bowels. Or the sea bursts forth - Its bands of rock, and laughing at “Thus far!” - Rolls wildly over peopled towns, and homes - In fancied safety; playing fearful pranks, - O’er which to chuckle in its briny bed; - Jeering the stones because they cannot swim, - And crushing like a shell all work of wood; - Docking the laden ships upon the hills, - And tossing lighter craft about like weeds; - Till, wearied with the spoiling, sinks to rest. - - Thus Nature to herself is but half kind, - But over man holds fullest tyranny; - And man, a creature who cannot prevent - His own existence! Why not happy made? - For surely ’twere as easy to create - Man in a state of happiness and good, - And keep him there, as to create at all. - If misery’s not deserved before his birth, - Then misery must from purest malice flow; - Yet malice none assign to Providence. - But some may say: Were man thus happy made, - He would not be a person, but a thing, - And lose the very seed of happiness, - The consciousness of merit. Grant ’tis true! - Then why does merit rarely meet reward? - And why does there appear a tendency, - Throughout the polity divine, to mark - With disapproval all the good in man, - And bless the evil? Through the entire world - Is felt this conflict: some strange power within - Exciting us to good, while all events - Proclaim its folly. Throughout Nature’s laws, - Through man in every station, up to God, - This fatal contradiction glares. The storm, - With ruthless breath, annihilates the cot - That, frail and humble, shields the widow’s head; - And while she reads within the use-worn Book - That none who trusts shall e’er be desolate, - The falling timbers crush the promise out, - And she is dead beneath her ruined home! - The prostrate cottage passed, the very wind - Now howls a rough but fawning lullaby - Around the marble walls, and lofty dome, - That shelter pride and heartless arrogance. - - And when the Boaz Winter throws his skirt - Of purest white across the lap of Earth, - And decks her bare arborial hair with gems, - Whose feeblest flash would pale the Koh-i-noor, - The rich, alone, find beauty in the scene, - And, clad in thankless comfort, brave the cold. - The gliding steels flash through the feathery drifts, - The jingling bells proclaiming happiness; - Yet ’neath the furry robe the oath is heard, - And boisterous laughter at the ribald jest. - The coldest hearts beat ’neath the warmest clothes; - And often all the blessings wealth can give, - Are heaped on one, whose daily life reviles - The very name of Him who doth bestow. - While in a freezing garret, o’er the coals - That, bluely flickering with the feeble flame, - Seem cold themselves, a trusting Christian bends; - Her faith all mocked by cruel circumstance. - The cold, bare walls, the chilling air-swept floor; - Some broken stools, a mattress stuffed with straw, - Upholstering the apartment. Through the sash, - The wind, with jaggèd lips of broken glass, - Shrieks in its freezing spite. A cold-blued babe, - With face too thin to hold a dimple’s print, - With famished gums tugs at the arid breast, - Thrusting its bare, splotched arms, in eagerness, - From out the poor white blanket’s ravelled edge. - Beside the mother sits a little boy, - With one red frost-cracked hand spread out, in vain, - To warm above the faintly-burning coals; - The other pressing hardly ’gainst his teeth - A stale and tasteless loaf of smallest size, - Which lifting often to the mother’s view, - He offers part; she only shakes her head, - And sadly smiles upon the gaunt young face. - Yet in her basket, on a pile of work, - An open Bible lies with outstretched leaves, - Whose verses speak in keenest irony: - “Do good,” and “verily thou shalt be fed.” - And so through all the world, the righteous poor, - The wicked rich. Deceit, and fraud, and craft - Reap large rewards, while pure integrity - Must gnaw the bone of faith with here and there - A speck of flesh called consciousness of right, - To reach the marrow in another world. - But man within himself’s the greatest paradox; - “A little animal,” as Voltaire says, - And yet a greater wonder than the sun, - Or spangled firmament. That little one - Can weigh and measure all the wheeling worlds, - But finds within his “five feet” home, a Sphinx - Whose riddle he can never solve. - “Thyself,” - The oracles of old bade men to know, - As if to mock their very impotence; - And man, to know himself, for centuries - Has toiled and studied deep, in vain.-- - Not man in flesh, for blest Hippocrates - Bright trimmed his lamp, and passed it down the line, - And each disciple adding of his oil, - It blazes now above the ghastly corpse, - Till every fibre, every thread-like vein, - Is known familiar as a city’s streets; - The little muscle twitching back the lip, - Rejoicing in a name that spans the page. - But man in mind, that is not seen nor felt, - But only knows he is, through consciousness. - He sees an outside world, with all its throng - Of busy people who care not for him, - And only few that know he does exist; - And yet he feels the independent world - Is but effect produced upon himself, - The Universe is packed within his mind, - His mind within its little house of clay. - What is that mind? Has it a formal shape? - And has it substance, color, weight, or force? - What are the chains that bind it to the flesh? - That never break except in death, though oft - The faculties are sent far out through space? - Where is it placed, in head, or hands, or feet? - And can it have existence without place? - And if a place, it must extension have, - And if extended, it is matter proven. - Poor man! he has but mind to view mind with, - And might as well attempt to see the eye - Without a mirror! True, faint consciousness - Holds up a little glass, wherein he sees - A few vague facts that cannot satisfy. - For these, and their attendant laws, have fought - The mental champions of the world till now - That each may deck them in his livery, - And claim them as his own discovery. - - Hedged in, man does not know that he is paled, - And struggles fiercely ’gainst the boundaries, - And strives to get a glimpse of those far realms - Of thought sublime, where his short wings would sink - With helpless fluttering, through the vast profound. - Upon the coals of curiosity, - A writhing worm, he’s laid; and twists and turns, - To find, in vain, the healing salve of Truth. - - But grant that mind exists in fullest play: - How does it work and what its modes of thought? - Here consciousness may act, and hold to view - A dim outline of powers, contraposed. - In such a conflict, every one may seize - The doctrine suits him best. Hence different creeds-- - Desire battling reason, reason will, - And will the weathercock of motive’s wind; - Motive the cringing slave of circumstance. - And here Charybdis rises; no control - Has man o’er circumstance, but circumstance - Begets the motive governing the will; - Then how can man be free? Yet some may say, - Man can obey the motive, or can not. - He can, but only when a stronger rules. - That we without a motive never act, - I do declare, though in the face of Reid. - That that is strongest which impels, a child - Might know, although Jouffroy exclaims, - “You’re reasoning in a circle.” Let us place - An iron fragment ’twixt two magnet-bars, - What one attracts is thereby stronger proved. - Or it may be the really weaker one, - But yet, because of nearness to the steel, - Possess a relatively greater force. - And so of motives, howe’er trivial they, - The one that moves is strongest to the mind. - To illustrate: Suppose I pare a peach; - A friend near by me banteringly asserts - That I can not refrain from eating it. - Two motives now arise--the appetite, - And the desire to prove my self-control. - I hesitate awhile, then laughing say, - “I would not give the peach to prove you wrong.” - But as my teeth press on it, pride springs up, - And bids me show that I am not the slave - Of appetite, and far away I hurl - The tinted, fragrant sphere. - Was not each thought - Spontaneous? Could I control their rise? - How perfectly absurd to talk of choice - Between two motives offered to the mind! - As if the motive was a horse we’d choose - To pull our minds about. There is no choice - Until the motive makes it; then we choose, - Not ’tween the motives, but the acts. - If, then, - The spring of action is the motive’s power, - The motive being far beyond our sway, - Where is our freedom? But a fabled myth! - And man but differs from a star in this,-- - The laws of stars are fixed and definite, - And every movement there can be foretold; - Of man, no deed can be foreseen till done. - At most we can but form a general guess - How he will act, at such a time and place. - Even if we knew the motives that would rise, - We could not prophesy unless we knew - Our subject’s frame of mind; for differently, - On different minds, same motives often act. - Hence, we can tell the conduct of a friend - More surely than a stranger’s, since we know, - By long acquaintance, how his motives work. - But should new motives rise, we cannot tell - Until experience gives us data new. - Thus we will ride beside a friend alone, - And show to him our money without fear, - Because we know the motives--love for us, - Honor, and horror of disgraceful crime-- - Are stronger with him than cupidity. - But with a stranger we would feel unsafe; - Nor would we trust our friend, were we alone - Upon an island, wrecked, and without food, - And saw his eye with hunger glare, and heard - The famished motive whispering to him, “Kill!” - If he were free, would we feel slightest fear? - For all his soul would shudder from the deed, - And never motive could impel such crime. - - Upon this principal all law is made; - For were man free he could not be controlled, - And all compliance would be his caprice. - But since he is the tyrant-motive’s slave, - The law to govern motive only seeks - And builds its sanction on the base of pain, - As motive strongest in the human heart. - It only falls below perfection’s height, - Because there are exceptions to the rule; - When hate and passion, lust and greed of gold, - Prove stronger than the fear of distant pain. - And could the law know fully every heart, - And vary sanction, there would be no crime. - - But law itself, and the obeying world, - Are proofs against the grosser form of Fate: - That all is preordained, nor can be changed. - All human life is vacillating life; - We make our plans each day, then alter them. - We form resolves one hour that break the next, - And no one dares assert that he will act, - Upon the morrow, in a certain way; - But cries, it all depends on circumstance. - And this is strange, that while we cannot change - Our lives one tittle by our own free will, - We help, each day, to change our neighbor’s course; - And he assists the motives changing ours. - For all relations to our fellow-men, - Are powers that form our lives, in spite of us. - But we may change our motives, often do, - By changing place, or circumstance of life, - By hearing, reading, or reflective thought; - Yet are these very things from motives done, - And motives mocking all our vain commands. - One motive made the object of an act, - Another rises subject of the act; - And to the final motive we can never reach. - - The world’s a self-adjusting, vast machine, - Whose human comparts cannot guide themselves; - And each is but a puppet to the whole, - Yet adds its mite towards its government; - Here, in this motive circle, lies all Fate. - Our fellow-men with motives furnish us, - While we contribute to their motive fund. - The real power, hidden deep within, - Escapes the eye of careless consciousness; - Who proudly tells us we are action’s cause. - Upon this error men, mistaken, raise - The edifice of law in all its forms; - That yet performs its varied functions well, - Because it offers motives that restrain, - Till stronger overcome, and crime ensues. - The motive gibbet lifts its warning arms; - The pillory gapes its scolloped lips for necks; - The lash grows stiff with blood and shreds of flesh; - The treadmill yields beneath the wearied feet; - And Sabbath after Sabbath preachers tell - Of judgment, and of awful Hell, and Heaven; - All these, to stronger make, than lust of sin. - And yet, to lead my reasoning to its end, - I find a chaos of absurdity. - If I am by an unruled motive driven, - Why act at all? Why passive not recline - Upon the lap of destiny, and wait her arms? - Why struggle to acquire means of life, - When Fate must fill our mouths or let us die? - Why go not naked forth into the world, - And trust to Fate for clothes? Why spring aside - From falling weight, or flee a burning house, - Or fight with instinct strength the clasp of waves? - Because we cannot help it; every act - Behind it has a motive, whose command - We, willing or unwilling, must obey. - - Law governs motives, motives create law; - Between the reflex action man is placed, - The helpless shuttlecock of unjust Fate! - Now passive driven to commit a crime, - Then by the driver laid upon the rack; - A Zeno’s slave, compelled by Fate to steal, - And then compelled by Fate to bear the lash! - - What gross injustice is the rule of life! - A sentient being made without a will, - And placed a cat’s-paw in the hands of Fate, - Who rakes the moral embers for a sin, - That, found, must burn the helpless one alone. - All right and wrong, and whate’er makes man man, - Are gone, and language is half obsolete; - No need of words to tell of moral worth - Existing not, nor e’en conceivable; - No words of blame or commendation, given - According to the intention of a deed; - No words of cheer or comfort, to incite, - For man must act without our useless tongues; - No words of prayer, if Fate supplies our wants; - No words of prayer, if Fate locks up her store; - No words of love, for fondest love were loathed - If fanned by Fate to flame. No words of hate, - For all forgive a wrong when helpless done; - The buds that bloom upon the desert heart - Lose all their sweetness when they’re forced to grow; - All pleasure’s marred because it is not earned, - And pain more painful since ’tis undeserved. - - Man falling from his high estate, becomes - A brute with keener sensibilities; - Endowed with mind, upon whose plastic face - Fate writes its batch of lies; poor man believes, - And prates of moral agency, and cants - Of good _he_ does, and evil that _he_ shuns. - With blind content, he rests in false belief, - And happy thus escapes the mental rack-- - The consciousness of what he really is. - - And yet why false belief? The world believes, - And acting, moves in general harmony; - Could harmony from such an error flow? - Would all believe, would not some one - Have doubted by his works as well as faith? - The veriest skeptic walks the earth to-day, - As if he held the seal of freest will, - And shapes its course, and judges all mankind - By freedom’s rule. - Then may not that be true - Which most believe, and those who doubt profess - In every act; as that which few believe - And to which none conform? - Two paths I see, - One marked Free-Will, the other Fate. The first, - Extending far as human thought can reach, - Through lovely meads with sweetest flowers, and fruits - Of actions clearly shown as right and wrong, - Because of choice ’twixt the two; of laws - With sanction suiting agents who are free; - Of courts acquitting the insane of crime, - Of crime made crime, alone, when done as crime, - Of judgment passed by public sentiment - On action in the ratio of liberty. - Delightful view; but seek an entrance there-- - The towering bars of unruled motive stand - Before the path, and none can overleap. - - The field of Fate lies open; nothing bars - Our progress there. A thousand different ways - The path diverges. Every by-path leads - To some foul pit or bottomless abyss. - Along each side are strewed the whitening bones - Of venturous pilgrims, lost amid its snares, - Some broken on the rocks of gross decree, - Who hold an unchanged destiny from birth; - Who will not take a medicine if sick, - Who cant of “To be, will be,” and the time - Unalterably set to each man’s life. - Some stranded on the finer form of Fate, - Who say it works by means. Hence they believe - In using all preventives to disease, - In going boating in a rubber belt, - In placing Franklin rods upon a house, - In preaching, and in praying men repent. - These, when one dies, cry out, “It was his time.” - Or if he should recover, “It was not.” - Their fate is always ex post facto fate, - And knowing not the future, they abide - The issue of events, and then confirm - Their dogged dogmas. - Still another class, - Though fewer far in numbers, perish here. - These are the sophists; men who deeply dive - Beneath the surface of effect, and trace - Our actions to their source. They find that man, - Made in the glorious image of his God, - Is not an independent cause, but works - From motive causes out of his control. - They find that every mental act must flow - From outside source, then fearlessly ascend - The chain of being to a height divine, - And dare to fetter the Eternal mind, - And throw their bonds around Omnipotence. - As well a spider in an eagle’s nest - Might, from his hidden web among the twigs, - Attempt to throw his little gluey thread - Around the mottled wing, whose muscled strength - Beats hurried vacuums in the ocean’s spray, - Or circling upward, parts the thunder-cloud, - And bursts above; and shaking off the mists, - With rigid feathers bright as burnished steel, - Floats proudly through the tranquil air. - Which realm - Shall now be mine, Free-Will or Fate? The one - Stands open wide, but all in ruin ends; - The other, fair if once within the pale; - But how to scale the barriers none can tell. - Bah! all is doubt. I’ll leave the mystic paths - Where, on each side, are ranged the phantom shapes - Of disputants, alive and dead, who fight, - With foolish zeal, o’er myths intangible; - When each one cries “Eureka!” for his creed. - That scarcely lives a day, then yields its place. - A Roman ’gainst a Roman, Greek to Greek, - A zealous Omar with an Ali paired; - A saintly Pharisee in hot dispute - With Sadducees. Along th’ illustrious rows - Of lesser lights, who advocate the creeds - Of their respective masters, we descend - To later days and see Titanic minds - Exert their giant strength to reach the truth, - And, baffled, fall. Locke, ever elsewhere clear, - Here mystified Spinoza’s dizzy wing - O’erweighted by his strange “imperium;” - Hobbes, with his new intrinsic liberty; - And Belsham’s quaint reduction too absurd; - “Sufficient reason,” reared in Leibnitz’s strength; - Reid, Collins, Edwards, Tappan, Priestley, Clarke, - All push each other from the door of Truth. - - None ever have, nor ever will, on earth, - Reach truth of theory concerning Fate. - It stands as whole from every touch of man - As ocean’s broad blue scroll, whose rubber waves - Erase the furrows of the plowing keels. - - Then, careless whether man be king or slave, - I’ll take his actions, whether free or not, - And trace them to their sources. Deep the dive, - But, throwing off the buoys of Charity - And Faith, and all the prejudice of life, - I grasp the lead of Doubt, and downward sink - Into the cesspool of the human heart, - To find the fount, that to the surface casts - A thousand bubbles of such varied hues: - The pale white bubble of hypocrisy, - The murky bubble of revenge and hate, - The frail gilt bubble of ambition’s hope, - The rainbow bubble of sweet love in youth, - The dull slime bubble of a sensual lust, - The crystal bubble of true charity! - Instead of analyzing every fact - Of moral nature, searching for its source, - I’ll name a source most probable, and try - The facts upon it; if they fit, confirm, - If not, reject. With Hobbes and Paley then - I join; and here avow that all mankind - Have but one source of action--Love of self-- - Yet not self-love as understands the world, - For that’s a name for error shown by few; - But natural instinct that impels all men - To give self pleasure, and to save it pain; - For pain and pleasure are Life’s only modes-- - No neutral state--we suffer, or enjoy; - And every action’s linked with one of these. - We cannot act without a consciousness, - A consciousness of pleasure or of pain, - The very automatic workings of our frames - Are pleasures, unmarked from their constancy; - But if impeded, they produce a pain. - This instinct, teaching us to pleasure seek, - And pain avoid, none ever disobey; - For be their conduct what it may, a crime - Or virtue, greed or pure benevolence, - To find the greatest pleasure is their aim. - Nay, start not, critic, but attend the proofs. - A man exists within himself alone, - Himself, or he would lose identity. - To him the world exists but by effects - Upon himself. His actions toward it then - Bear reference to himself. He cannot act - Without affecting self. His nature’s law - Demands that self be dealt with pleasantly. - - There is no pain or pleasure in the world, - But as he feels th’ reality in self, - Or fancies it by signs in other men. - This fancied pain is never _real_ pain, - But yields a _real_ reflex. Others’ pain - Is never pain to us, unless we know - It does exist. Within a hundred yards - A neighbor dies, in agony intense, - And yet we feel no slightest trace of pain, - Unless informed thereof. ’Tis only when we know, - And therefore are affected, that we feel. - - The modes of pain and pleasure are then two, - A real and a fancied one. The first acute, - In ratio of our sensibilities; - The last in ratio of our image-power. - These gifts in different men unequal are, - And hence life’s varied phases. One may deem - A real pain far greater than a pain - In fancy formed, from others’ sufferings; - He eats alone, and drives the starving off. - Another’s fancy paints more vividly, - And he endures keen hunger to supply - The poor with food. And so of pleasure too,-- - And this moves all to shun the greatest pain, - And find the greatest pleasure. - Different minds, - And each at different times of life, possess - A different standard of this highest good. - The swaddled infant wails for its own food, - Because its highest pleasure is alone in sense; - The child will from its playmate hide a cake - Until it learns that praise for sharing it - Gives greater pleasure than the sweetened taste; - One boy at school proves insubordinate, - His schoolmates’ praise he deems his highest good; - Another studies well, because he values more - A parent’s smile. The murderer with his knife, - The maiden praying in her purity, - The miser dying over hoards of gold, - The widow casting thither her two mites, - A white-veil bending o’er the dying couch, - A stained beauty floating through the waltz, - The preacher’s zeal, the gambler’s eager zest; - All have one motive, greatest good to self! - - The tender stop their ears, and cry aloud: - “What! do you dare assert the gambler seeks - With hellish zeal the faintest shade of good? - That he is holy as the Man of God?” - By no means, yet he seeks his good the same. - Not good as you’ve been taught to apprehend, - But good, the greatest to his frame of mind. - Do not exclaim that good is always good, - And never differs from itself. Anon - We’ll speak of abstract truths, if such there be - That good and pleasure are synonymous - At times of action, is most surely plain; - For pleasure’s but the consciousness of good, - Or satisfaction of our tendencies. - If all the gambler’s soul is bent on gain, - Then at the moment gain is greatest good; - But should you reason with him, and explain - Another life, and make it really seem - To him the best, he straight would change his course. - - “But,” cries my friend, “the preacher, if he’s true, - Must labor, not for self, but others’ good; - And in proportion as the self’s forgot, - And others cared for, does his conduct rise.” - - But he can not, if conscious, forget self, - For everything he does is felt within; - But deeds for others’ good a pleasure give; - If done in pain to self, the pleasure’s more. - To gain the pleasure, self is put to pain, - Just as a vesication brings relief. - If he refused to undergo the pain - Remorse would double it. - Among his flock - Some one is sick; to visit him is right, - And done, affords a pleasure. Sweeter far - That pleasure, if he walks through snow and ice, - At duty’s call! - - Sublime self-sacrifice, - Of which men prate, is nothing more nor less - Than base self-worship. Little pain endured - T’ avoid a great; a smaller pleasure lost - To gain a larger! - - All the preacher’s words, - That burn or die upon the stolid ear, - Are spoken from this motive, good to self. - You stare; but it is true. Why does he preach? - To save men’s souls?--Why does he try to save? - Because he loves his fellow-men? Not so. - His love for them but to the pleasure adds, - Which duty done confers; but all his work - Must be with reference to himself alone, - Though cunning self the real motive hides, - And leaves his broad philanthropy and love - To claim the merit. Let a score of men, - The blackest sinners, die. He knows it not, - And feels no pang; but if he is informed, - He suffers reflex pain. And if his charge, - Remorseful tortures for unfaithfulness. - And only is the state of souls to him - Of interest, as they are known. When known, - It is a source of pleasure or of pain - Which all his labor is to gain or shun. - - “This difference then,” says one, “between men’s lives; - Some live for present, some for future good. - The sensual care for self on earth alone, - The mystic cares for self beyond the grave.” - - Both love a present self, in present time. - They differ in their notions of its good. - The stern ascetic, with his shirt of hair, - His bleeding penitential knees, his fasts - To almost death, his soul-exhausting prayers, - Is seeking, cries the world, good after death. - And yet his course of life is that alone - Which could yield pleasure in his state of mind. - He suffers, it is true, but hope of Heaven - Thus rendered sure, as much a present good - Is, as the food that feasts the epicure. - The contemplation of his future home, - Which he is thus securing, is a balm - That heals his stripes, and sweetens all their pain. - The penance blows upon his blood-wealed breast - Are bliss compared to lashes of remorse. - So for the greater good, the hope of Heaven, - He undergoes “the trivial pain of flesh.” - The epicure cares not a fig for Heaven, - But finds his greatest good in pleasing sense. - And so the man who gives his wealth away - Is just as selfish as the money-slave - Who grinds out life amid his dusty bags. - They both seek happiness with equal zest: - The one finds pleasure in the many thanks - Of those receiving, or the public’s praise, - Or if concealed, in consciousness of right; - The other in the consciousness of wealth. - - If all men act from motives just the same, - Where is the right and wrong? In the effect? - The quality of actions must be judged - From their intent, and not their consequence. - If two men matches light for their cigars, - And from one careless dropped, a house is burned, - Is he that dropped it guiltier of crime - Than he whose match went out? Most surely no! - Then is the miser blameless, though he turn - The helpless orphan freezing from his door; - And Dives should not be commended more, - Though all his goods to feed the poor he gives. - - How then shall we determine quality - Of actions, when their sources are the same, - And their effects possess no quality? - Two dead men lie in blood beside the way, - The one shot by a friend, an accident; - The other murdered for his gold. ’Tis plain - No wrong lies in th’ effects, for both are ’like; - And of the agents, he of accident - Had no intent, and therefore did no wrong. - The other killed to satisfy the self, - A motive founding all the Christian work, - And right if that is right. The wrong - Then lies between the motive and effect, - And must exist in the effecting means. - Yet how within the means is wrong proved wrong? - Jouffroy would say, because a disregard - Of others’ rights; for here he places good, - When classifying Nature’s moral facts. - He makes the child first serve flesh self, - Then moral self, and last to others’ good - Ascend, and general order. What a myth! - As if man thought of others, save effect - From them upon himself. But order gives - A greater good to self; therefore he joins - His strength to others, creates laws that bind - Himself and them, and produce harmony. - He thus surrenders minor good of self, - To gain a greater. This is all the need - He has of order, though Jouffroy asserts - That order universal is the Good. - Yet still he says that private good of each - Is but a fragment of the absolute, - And that regard for every being’s rights - Is binding as the universal law! - - Regard for others’ rights indeed, when men - Unharmed agree to hang a man for crime! - Not for the crime--that’s past; but to prevent - A second crime, which crime alone exists - In apprehensive fancy. Thus for wrong - That’s but forethought, they do a real wrong. - To save their rights from harm they fear may come. - They strip a fellow-man of actual right, - And highest, right of life; then dare to call - Their action pure, divinely just, and good, - And all the farce of empty names. - They make - Of gross injustice individual, - A flimsy justice, for mankind at large, - And cry, Let it be done, though Heaven fall! - As if a whole could differ from its parts, - Or right be made from wrong. Yet some may say - That one is sacrificed for many’s good, - Or hung that many may avoid his fate; - And that his crime deserved what he received. - - But law must value every man alike, - And cannot save one man, or thousand men, - From future evil, only possible, - By greatest evil to another man, - In its own view of justice. Nor can crime - Meet punishment, at mortal hands, by right, - For murder’s murder, done by one or twelve, - And legal murder’s done in colder blood, - Whose stains are chalked by vain authority. - Authority! the child of numbers and self-love! - Regard for rights of things, indeed, when beasts - And birds must yield their right of life that man - May please his right of taste. When, during Lent, - The holy-days of fasting and of prayer, - The scaly victims crowd the Bishop’s board, - Their flesh unfleshed by Conscience’ pliant rule, - Our palates must be for a moment pleased, - Though costing something agonies of death; - And worse than robbers, what we cannot give, - We dare to take. - They have no souls, say you? - Nor after death exist? - That nothing’s lost, - Philosophy maintains as axiom truth. - An object disappears, but somewhere lives - In other form. The water-pool to mist - Is changed, the powder into flame and smoke. - My pointer dies, his body, decomposed, - The air, the soil, and vegetation feeds; - Yet still exists, although disintegrate. - For there was something, while the pointer lived, - That was not body, but that governed it, - A spirit, essence, call it what you will, - A something seen but through phenomena, - And by them proved most clearly to exist. - A something, not the feet that made them run, - A something, not the eyes, but knew they saw, - A something, without which the eyes could see - As much as glasses can without the eye, - The something, “Carlo” named, that knew the name. - The pointer dies, and we dissect the flesh. - All there, none missing, to the tiniest nerve; - Yet something’s gone, the more important part, - And can you say that it has ceased to be, - When th’ flesh, inferior to it, still exists? - The spirit, if existent, must be whole, - Nor can be parted till material proven. - That Carlo lives, seems plain as I shall live; - He lived for self, and so did I; we fare - Alike in after-life, we differ here - In consciousness of immortality. - But I digress. - Where is the right and wrong? - This is the Gordian knot no sword can cut, - All sages of the world, with wisdom-teeth, - Have gnawed this file without the least effect. - The thousand savants of old Greece and Rome - Proclaimed a thousand theories of good, - That each, successive, proud devoid of truth. - A myriad moderns have advanced their views, - Each gained a few disciples, who avowed their truth, - And each, by some one else, been proven wrong. - A Bentham marches out utility, - A moral test from benefit or harm. - As if the good depended on effect, - And good would not be good, though universe - In all its phases found no use! And Price - Parades his “reason,” with its simple good; - Who’d rather give the question up, than err, - And so declares it cannot be defined. - Then Wollaston declares that good is truth, - Which no one doubts, far as it goes; it goes - Toward good, as far as truth, its attribute; - Beyond, it cannot reach. And Montesquieu - And Clarke, relation’s order preach; a rule - That makes the growing grain, or falling shower, - A moral agent, capable of good. - Then Wolf and Malebranche perfection see, - And therefore good, in God; but their sight fails, - And God may mirror good, but man’s weak eyes - Ne’er see it. Adam Smith, with “sentiment” - Proceeds to dress a thought, and call it, good; - And makes the abstract of a Universe - Arise from puling human sympathy. - The largest concourse follow Hutcheson, - Although the greater part ne’er heard of him. - The world at large believes in moral sense; - They call it conscience! Oh the precious word! - Though stretched and warped, they almost deify, - And term it man’s tribunal in his breast, - Where he may judge his actions, right or wrong. - What nonsense! Conscience is but consciousness - Of soul, and idea of its good. We form - This idea from regard of fellow-men, - Association, and from thought. We find - Sometimes the good of soul conflicts with flesh, - And when we know the soul above the flesh, - We yield to that the preference. Hence arise - The foolish notions of self disregard. - The savage does not know he has a soul, - And therefore has no conscience. He can steal - Without remorse. But when he learns of soul, - He finds it has a good, and by this test - Tries moral actions, are they good for soul? - And this is conscience. - Yet is conscience changed - By circumstance. The Hindoo mother tears - The helpless infant from her trickling breast, - To feed the crocodile, and save her soul; - She’s happier in its conscience-murdered wail - Than in its gleeful prattle on her knee. - And daily we see one commit a deed - Without a pang, another dare not do. - If conscience may be warped but one degree - By plain Sorites, it may be reversed, - And only prove an interested thought. - - To abstract good no man has found the key, - Though in the various forms of concrete good - We see the similars, and from these frame - A good that serves the purposes of life. - We pass it as we do the concept, “Man,” - But never ope to count the attributes. - Our purest right is but approximate - To this vague abstract idea, how obtained, - We know not. Plato says ’tis memory - Of previous life. Perhaps! ’Tis very dim - In this; and yet it rocks the cradle world - As strongly as the baby man can bear - And so of truth, or aught abstract, we know - Of such existence somewhere, that is all. - “But we,” cries one, “do hold some abstract truth, - In perfect form. The truth of science’ laws, - The truths of numbers, each are perfect truths.” - The truths of science are hypotheses, - And only true as far as they explain. - But perfect truth must save all facts, - That ever rose or possibly can rise. - “The priest of Nature” thought he held the truth - When throughout space he tracked the motes of light, - And ground the sunbeams into dazzling dust. - Our quivering waves through subtle ether flash, - And drown Sir Isaac’s atoms in a flood - Of glorious truth; till some new fact shall rise - To give our truth the lie, and cause a change - Of theory. - Our numbers no truth have, - Or but a shadow, cast on Earth by truth - Existent in some unknown world. We make - Our little numbers fit the shadow’s line - As best they can, and boast eternal truth! - Yet take a simple form of numbers, “two,” - We cannot have a perfect thought of this, - Because the mind directly asks, two what? - ’Tis not enough chameleon to feed - On empty air. Two units, we reply - Then what is meant by unity? An “One,”-- - The mind can only cognize o-n-e, - Which makes three units and not one. - The mind - Must have a concrete object to adjust - The abstract on, before it comprehends. - But two concretes are never two, because - They never can be proved exactly ’like. - To illustrate: suppose two ivory balls, - Of finest mold, and equal weight, precise - As hair-hung scales, arranged most delicate, - Can prove; yet they can not be shown - To differ, not the trillionth of a grain; - Or if they could, they may in density - Be unlike; then to equal weight, one must - Be larger by the trillionth of an inch. - Even if alike in density and weight, - No one will dare assert that they possess - A perfect similarity in all. - The abstract two is twice as much as one, - But our two balls unlike, perforce must be - Greater or less than two of either one; - But two of one, the same can never be - On poor, imperfect Earth. Thus all our twos - Fall, in some measure, short of concept two. - And if we paint the concept to the eye, - The figure 2 of finest stereotype, - Beneath the microscope imperfect shows. - And so our perfect numbers, wisdom’s boast, - Are faint, uncertain shadows in the mind, - That we can never picture to the eye, - Nor truthfully apply to anything. - We use a ragged, ill-drawn substitute, - That answers all the purposes of life. - The truths of mathematics, so sublime, - Are never true to us, concretely known; - And in the abstract so concealed are they, - No man can swear he has their perfect form. - We can’t conceive a line without some breadth-- - The perfect line possesses length alone; - Earth never saw a pure right-angle drawn, - Pythag’ras cannot prove his theorem, - The finest quadrant is but nearest truth, - The closest measures but approximate, - And all from Sanconiathon to Pierce, - With grandest soaring into Number’s realms, - Have only fluttered feebly o’er the ground, - Their heaven-strong wings by feebling matter tied. - - Man is a pris’ner, but the prison walls - Are very vast; so vast the universe - Lies, like a mote, within their mighty scope. - Most are content to grovel on the earth, - Some rise a little way, and sink again; - And some, on noble wing, soar to the bounds, - And eager beat the bars. Beyond these walls - The abstract lies, and oft the straggling rays, - Through crevices and chinks, stray to our jail; - And these we fondly hug as truth. - Poor man! - The glimpses of the great Beyond have roused, - For centuries, his curious soul to flight. - With eagle eye fixed on the distant goal, - He cleaves his way, till dashed against the walls; - Some fall with bruiséd wing again to Earth, - And some cling bravely there, so eager they - To reach the untouched prize, and so intent - Their gaze upon its light, they notice not - The bounds, till Hamilton, with wary eye, - Discovers the Eternal bounding line, - And sadly shows its hopeless fixity. - - But man on Earth I love to ridicule, - A little clod of sordid selfishness! - I’ll take his mental acts of every kind - And see how self originates them all; - I’ll follow Stewart, since he classifies - With shrewd discretion, though his reasoning err, - He places first the appetites; and these - Perforce are selfish, as our self alone - Must feel and suffer with our wants. Our food - Tastes good alone to us. The richest feast, - In others’ mouths, could never satisfy - Our appetite for food; self must be fed. - Desires are next; and that of knowledge, first, - Is proven selfish, by his quoted line - From Cicero--that “knowledge is the food - Of mind”--and food is ever sought for self. - Desire of social intercourse with men, - From thought that it will better self, proceeds. - Man’s state is friendly, not a state of war, - For instinct teaches him society - Will offer many benefits to self; - And only when he has a cause to fear - That self will suffer, does he learn to war. - Desire to gain esteem, is self in search - Of approbation; like the appetite, - The end pursued affects alone the self. - And lastly Stewart boasts posthumous fame, - When self, as sacrificed, can seek no good. - To prove the motive is a selfish good, - I’ll not assert enjoyment after life, - But say, the pleasure of the millions’ praise, - Anticipated in the present thought, - And intense consciousness of heroism, - Far more than compensates the pangs of death. - A Curtius leaping down the dread abyss, - Enjoys his fame enough, before he strikes, - To pay for every pain of mangling death. - Affections next adorn the moral page. - At that of kindred, mothers cry aloud: - “For shame! for shame! do you pretend to say - I love my child with any thought of self? - When I would lay my arm upon the block, - And have it severed for his slightest good!” - I’ll square your love by Reason’s rigid rule, - And test its source. Why do you love him so? - For benefit he has conferred, or may? - No, as the helpless babe, demanding care, - You love him most. Your love is instinct then, - And like the cow her calf, you love your child; - That you may care for him, before self moves. - Then do you love him always just the same, - When rude and bad as when obedient? - But I’ll dissect your love, and take away - Each part affecting self; and see what’s left. - He now has grown beyond your instinct love; - You love him, first, because he is your son, - And you would suffer blame, if you did not; - You love him, too, because he does reflect - A credit on yourself. You feel assured - That others thinking well of him, think well - Of you. Because it flatters all your pride - To think so fine a life is part of yours; - Because his high opinion of your worth - Evokes a meet return; because you look - Into the future, and see honors bright - Awaiting you through him; because you feel - The world is praising you for loving him, - And would condemn you, did you not. And last, - You feel the pleasure deep of self-esteem, - Because you fill the public’s and your own - Romantic ideas of a mother’s love. - - Let each component part be now destroyed, - And see if still you love him. As a man, - He plunges into vice of vilest kinds; - His bright reflections on yourself are gone, - And people think the worse of you, for him; - You never smile, but frown, upon him now, - But still you love him dearly! To his vice - He adds a crime, a foul and blasting crime; - Your pride is gone, you feel a bitter shame, - A score of opposites to love creep in; - A righteous anger at his foolish sins, - A just contempt for nature, weak as his; - But yet you love him fondly, for the world - Is lauding you for “mother’s holy love”; - And you delight its clinging strength to show, - You gain in public credit by your woes, - And get the soothing martyr’s sympathy. - But let him still grow worse, and sink so low, - That people say you are disgraced through him, - Your warmest friends will not acquaintance own, - Your love for such an object’s ridiculed, - And gains respect from none. Your only chance - Is to disown him. How you loud proclaim, - “He’s not my child but by the accident - Of birth!” - Do yet you love him in your heart? - This then because you think yourself so good, - So heaven-like, for loving him disgraced, - You go to see him in the shameful jail; - He spits upon, and beats you from his cell, - And tells you that he hates your very name. - Now all your love is gone, except the glow - Of pity for him chained to dungeon floor; - But he’s released, and deeper goes in crime; - Then, lastly, Pity yields. Your heart is stone! - - But love was only touched in selfish part, - Yet should you still deny your love is self’s; - Of several children, do you not love most - The one whose conduct pleases most yourself? - But love, unselfish, never could be moved - By anything affecting self alone. - - The throbbing hearts of lovers beat for self, - And this I’ll prove, though Pyramus may vow - He has no thought but Thisbe. - Take away - Love’s sensual part, which is an appetite, - And therefore selfish, by its Nature’s law; - And what remains is, first, a slight conceit - At our discernment in the choice we’ve made, - And then a pride that we have won the prize; - A pride, that some one thinks we are the best; - A pleasure in her presence, too, we feel, - Because in every look she manifests - Her preference for us. This is flattering - Beyond all else that we have ever known. - A friend may raise our self-esteem, indeed, - By showing constantly his own esteem, - But never can man’s vanity receive - A higher tribute than a woman’s love! - This tribute, we, of course, reciprocate, - And when together, we increase self-love - By mutual words expressing our regard. - Yet when our love is deepest, if we find - Our Self is not so worshipped as we thought, - Our love grows cold; and when we are not loved - We cease to love. To illustrate permit: - - You’re on the topmost wave of fervid love-- - A wilder flame than poets ever sung; - You’ve passed the timid declaration’s bounds, - And revel in a full assured return. - There is no need for check upon your heart, - It has full leave to pour its gushing tide - Of feeling forth, and meet responsive floods. - You meet her in the parlor’s solitude, - No meddling eye to watch the sacred scene. - The purple curtains hang their corded folds - Before the tell-tale windows; closed the door, - And sealed with softest list. The rich divan - Is drawn before the ruddy grate that glows - With red between the bars, and blue above. - You sit beside The Angel of your dreams, - And gaze in adoration. What a form! - Revealed in faultless symmetry by robes - Of rare, exquisite elegance, and taste, - That fit the tap’ring waist and arching neck. - And how superbly flow the torrents of her hair! - Which she has shaken loose, because “it’s you”; - Her great brown eyes that gaze so dreamily - Upon the flowers of the vellum-screen - That wards the fire from her tinted cheek! - One hollow foot, in dainty, bronze bootee, - Tapping the tufted lion on the rug; - A snowy hand with blazing solitaire-- - The pledge of your betrothal--nestling soft - Within your own. - And thus you sit, and breathe - With tones so soft, because the ear’s so near, - The mutual confidence of little cares; - And how you longed for months to tell your love, - But feared a cold rebuke; and how you dared - To hope through all the gloom; and how you grieved - At every favor shown to other men; - How now the clouds have flown away, - And all is brightness, joy, and tender love. - Then drawing nearer, round the slender waist - You pass an arm; and nestling cheek to cheek, - Palm throbbing palm, you hush all useless words, - And thought meets thought, in silent love. - And now and then, you leave the cheek, to kiss - The coral lips; yet not with transient touch, - But with a fervid, lingering pressure there, - As if you longed to force the lips apart, - And drink the soul; while both her melting orbs - Are drooped beneath your burning inch-near eyes. - The parting hour must come. The good-night said, - You rise to leave; and turning, at the door, - You see her head drooped on the sofa’s arm, - You fancy she is sighing that you’re gone; - And stealing back on tiptoe, gently raise - The beauteous face, and take it ’twixt your palms; - And gazing on the features radiant, - Distorted queerly by your pressing hands, - You feel that life, the parting cannot bear, - That you must stay forever there, or die! - Another effort, one more nectar sip, - You rush from out the room, and slam the door, - Just on the steps, you meet your rival’s face. - He has an easy confidence, and walks - Into the house, as if it were his own. - Poor fellow! how you really pity him! - You can afford to be magnanimous, - And deprecate his certain, cruel fate. - You murmur: “Well, he brings it on himself,” - And turn to go. The window’s near the ground, - And slightly raised. Although you know it’s mean, - You cannot now resist, but creep up near, - And with a finger part the curtain’s fringe. - You see your darling run across the room - With both extended hands, and hear her say: - “Oh Fred! I am so very glad you’ve come, - I feared that stupid thing would never leave, - I had to let him take my hand awhile, - And mumble over it, to get him off.” - - You grasp the iron railing for support, - And, faint and dizzy with the agony - Of love’s departure, cling till all has fled; - Then stagger home without a trace of love. - Yet only Self is touched; her beauty’s there, - Her sparkling wit, and her intelligence, - Her manner even, towards you, has not changed, - And, were you with her, she would be the same. - Love’s every motive disappeared with Self, - No pride of conquest, no romance of thought; - You meet no sympathy, but ridicule! - - A mother’s love may last through injury, - Because it reaps the self’s reward of praise - For constancy, through wrong. The lover’s flame. - Unless supplied with fuel-self, dies out, - For, burning, ’twould deserve supreme contempt. - - The less affairs of life are traced to Self. - The code of Etiquette, that Chesterfield - Defines “Benevolence in little things,” - Is but a scheme to give Self consciousness - Of excellence in breeding, and to keep - “Our Circle” sep’rate by its shibboleth. - The stately bow, the graceful sip of wine, - The useless little finger’s dainty crook - In lifting up the fragile Sevres cup, - The holding of the hat in morning calls, - The touch of it when passing through the streets, - The drawing of a glove, the use of cane-- - Our every act is coupled with the thought - How well Self does all this. - - Our very words - Are used to gratify the self. Men talk - By preference, for they judge their words - Will gain them more applause than listening. - But if attention yields more fruit to Self, - How patiently they hear the longest tale, - And laugh in glee at its insipid close! - If with superiors, we attend, because - Attention pleases more with them than words; - But if inferiors, we must talk the most, - Since their attention flatters us so much. - The cause of converse, Self, is oftenest food. - How few the talks that are not spiced with “I,” - What “I” can do, or did or will! - - Sometimes, - The Self is held, on purpose, up for jest; - As when men tell a joke upon themselves. - But here the shame of conduct or mishap - Is more than balanced by the hearty laugh, - Which gives its pleasant witness to our wit. - We never tell what will present ourselves - In such an aspect laughter cannot heal; - Although it compliments our telling powers. - - Attentions to the fair, but seek for Self - Their smiles of favor. Little deeds of love - To those around us, look for their reward. - The youth polite, who gives his chair to Age, - “Without a thought of Self,” is yet provoked, - If Age do not evince, by nod or smile, - His obligation to that unthought Self. - - The very qualities we call innate, - Arise and rule through Self. Our reverence, - Or tendency to worship, is to gain - A good. Religion grows this tendency - Into the various Churches, all whose ends - Are to secure eternal good for Self. - And those who preach that man does sacrifice - Himself for fellow-men, I ask, why none - Will give his soul for others’? Many give - The paltry life on Earth for others’ good; - The very stones would cry “O! fool!” to him - Who’d yield his soul; for that is highest Self, - And nothing e’er can compensate its loss. - - In all these things, Self stands behind the scenes, - And men see not the force that moves them on. - But in the boudoir, ’tis enthroned supreme, - And does not care to hide the cloven foot. - In every home, the marble and the log, - In mammoth trunks, and chests of simple pine, - In rosewood cases, and the pasteboard box, - Are crammed the slaves of Self, to poor and rich, - The clothes that, fine or common, feed its pride. - The velvets, satins, silken _robes de flamme_, - The worsted, calico, and homespun stripe; - The Guipure, Valenciennes, and Appliqué, - The gimp, galloon, and shallow bias frill; - The Talmas, Arabs, basques and paletots, - The coarse plaid shawl, the hood, and woollen scarf; - The chignons, chatelaines, and plaited braids, - The beaded net, and tight-screwed knot of hair; - The dazzling jewels, ranged in season sets, - The pinchbeck, gilt, and waxen trinketry; - The tinted boots, half-way the silken hose, - The shoes that tie o’er cotton blue-and-white; - The corset laced to hasten ready Death, - The leather belt, that cuts the broad, thick waist; - The bosom heaving only waves of wire, - The bosom, cotton stuffed, beyond all shape; - The belladonna sparkling in the eye, - The finger tip, and water without soap; - The rouge and carmine for the city cheeks, - The berries’ ruddy juice for rural ones; - The pearly powder, with its poisoned dust, - The cup of flour to ghastlify the face;-- - All these, and thousand fixtures none can count, - Man’s vanity, and woman’s love of show, - Appropriate for Self. - And such is Man! - The puzzle of the Universe! Within, - A giant to himself; without, a babe. - A giant that we cannot but despise, - A babe we must admire for his power. - His mind, Promethean spark divine, can pierce - The shadowy Past, and gaze in rapturous awe - Upon the birth of worlds, that from the Mind - Eternal spring to blazing entities, - And whirl their radiant orbs through cooling space; - Or place the earth beneath its curious ken, - And with an “Open Sesame!” descend - Into its rocky chambers, there unfold - The stone archives, and read their graven truths-- - Earth’s history written by itself therein-- - How age by age, a globe of liquid fire, - It dimmer grew, and dark and stiff, - And drying, took a rough, uneven face; - Above the wave, the mountain’s smoking top - Appeared, beneath it gaped the valley’s gorge; - But smoking still, it stood a gloomy globe, - Naked and without life. And how the trees - And herbs their robes of foliage brought; their form - And life adapted to their heated bed. - And how a stream of animation poured - Upon its face, when ready to sustain; - Great beasts who trod the cindered soil unscathed, - And tramped the fervid plains with unscorched soles. - Great fish whose hardened fins hot waters churned - That steamed at every stroke. How periods passed - And fields and forests teemed with gentler life, - The waters wound in rivers to the sea, - Then spread their vap’ry wings and fled to land. - The oceans tossed in bondage patiently; - Volcanic mountains closed their festering mouths, - And Earth made ready for her master, Man. - - It traces Man, expelled from Paradise, - Along the winding track of centuries. - It marks his slow development, from two, - To families, and tribes, and nations vast. - It gazes on the wondrous scenes of war, - And peace, and battle plain, and civic game; - And lives through each, with all of real life, - Except the body’s presence there. It turns - From man to beasts and birds, and careless strokes - The lion’s mane, the humbird’s scarlet throat. - It tracks the mammoth to his jungle home, - Or creeps within the infusoria’s cell. - It measures Earth from pole to pole, or weighs - The bit of brass, that lights the battery spark. - Is Earth too small, it plumes its flight through space; - From world to world, as bird from twig to twig, - It flies, and furls its wing upon their discs, - To tell their weight, and giant size, or breathe - Their very air to find its gaseous parts. - Now bathing in pale Saturn’s misty rings, - Or chasing all the moons of Jupiter - Behind his darkened cone. The glorious sun, - With dazzling vapor robe, and seas of fire, - Whose cyclones dart the forkèd flames far out, - To lap so hungrily amid the stars, - Is but its playhouse, where it rides the storms, - That sweep vast trenches through the surging fire, - In which the little Earth could roll unseen; - Or bolder still, beyond our system’s bounds, - It soars amid the wilderness of worlds; - Finds one condemned to meet a doom of fire, - And makes its very flames inscribe their names, - In dusky lines, upon the spectroscope. - With shuddering thought to see a world consumed, - The fate prepared for ours, it lingers there - Until the lurid conflagration dies. - And then seeks Earth, and leaves the laggard, - Light, - To plod its journey vast. - The smallest mote - Of dust that settles on an insect’s wing, - It can dissect to atoms ultimate. - With these, too small for sight, may Fancy deal, - And revel in her Lilliputian realm. - These atoms forming all, by Boscovitch - Are proved, in everything, to be alike; - And ultimate, since indivisible. - Each in its place maintained by innate force - And relatively far from each, as Earth - From Sun. - Suppose, then, each to be a world, - Peopled with busy life, a human flood, - As earnest in their little plans as we, - As grand in their opinion of themselves! - Oh! what a depth of contrast for the mind! - The finest grain of sand, upon the beach, - Has in its form a million perfect worlds! - Or take the other scale, suppose the Earth, - Our great and glorious Earth, to only form - The millionth atom of some grain of sand, - That shines unnoticed on an ocean’s shore, - Whose waves wash o’er our whirling stars and sun - Too insignificant to feel their surge. - Another step on either side, and mind, - In flesh, shrinks from the giant grasp. - Yet noble are its pinions, strong their flight; - Thrice, only, do they droop their baffled strength, - Before the Future, Infinite, Abstract! - The first is locked, the second out of reach, - The third a maze that none can penetrate. - The first, alone to inspiration opes; - The second dashed to Earth her boldest wing, - Spinoza’s, who essayed the idea God, - And grappling bravely with the grand concept, - So far above the utmost strength of Man, - Placed God’s existence in extent and thought; - And filled all space with God. The Universe, - A bud or bloom of the Eternal Mind, - That opens like a flower into this form, - And may retract Creation in Itself! - Alas! that effort so sublime should end - In mystery and doubt. - A Universe, - How vast so ever, has its bounds somewhere, - But Space possesses none, and God in Space, - Would be so far beyond Creation’s speck, - He scarce would know it did exist. That part - Of Mind, expressed in matter, would be lost - Amid the Infinite domains of thought. - - Yet Man in flesh, the casket of the mind, - Whose wondrous power I’ve told, is ever chained, - A grovelling worm, to Earth, and never leaves - The sod where he must lie. No time is his - But present; not a mem’ry of the past. - His very food, while in his mouth, alone, - Tastes good. He stands a dummy in the world, - That only acts when acted on. How great - The mystery of union ’tween the two! - A feather touches not the body, but the mind - Perceives it; yet the mind may live through scenes - The body never knew, nor can. Yet not - With vivid life--the sense is lacking there. - The memory of a banquet may be plain, - So that the daintest dish could be described, - As well as if the eye and tongue were there; - The eye and tongue, alone the present know, - And find no good in anything that’s past. - All thought is folly, every path is dark; - Truth gleaming fairly in the distant haze, - On near approach becomes the blackest lie. - Man and his soul may go, nor will I fret - To learn their mystic bonds. A worm I am, - And worm I must remain, till Death shall burst - The chrysalis, and free the web-wound wings. - Yet, oh! ’twere grand to spurn the clogging Earth - And cleave the air towards yonder looming cloud; - To stand upon its red-bound crest and dare - The storm-king’s wildest wrath. - - My thoughts - Grew dull, my eyelids slowly closed, the scene - Became confused and melted into sleep. - And far up in the blue, as yet untouched - By clouds, I saw a white descending speck. - Methought ’twas but a feather from the breast - Of some migrating swan, that Earthward fell, - And watched to see it caught upon the wind, - And sail a tiny kite to fairy land. - But circling down, the speck became a dove, - A heron, then a swan, and larger still, - Till I could mark a pair of great white wings, - Between which hung its wondrous form. Still down - It swept, till scarce above the trees it stood, - Resting on quivering wings, as if it sought - A place to ’light. I saw then what it was, - A steed of matchless beauty, agile grace, - Combined with muscled strength; but ere I drew - The first long breath, that follows such surprise - It gently downward swooped, and at my feet, - With dainty hoof, the turf impatient pawed. - Enrapt, I gazed upon its beauteous form, - Its sculptured head, and countenance benign, - The soft sad eyes, the arrow-pointed ears, - The scarlet nostrils opening like two flowers, - The sinewed neck, curved like a swimming swan’s, - The splendid mane, a cataract of milk, - That poured its foaming torrents half to Earth, - The tap’ring limbs, tipped with pink-hued hoofs, - That touched our soil with a proud disdain; - The dazzling satin coat, and netting veins, - And last the glorious wings, whose feathers lapped - Like scales of creamy gold. What seemed a cloth - Of woven snow, with richest silver fringe, - Draped with its gorgeous folds the shining flanks. - - It was perfection’s type, the absolute, - Not one defect; the tiniest hair was smooth, - The smallest feather’s edge unfrayed. The eyes - Without the slightest bloodshot fleck, or mote. - No fault the microscope could have revealed, - Though magnifying many million times. - So great my wonder, that I could not move, - But lay entranced, while he stood waiting there; - Till wearied with my long delay, he raised - His wings half-way, and eager trembled them, - As bluebirds do when near their mate; a neigh - Of trumpet tone aroused me. Then I sprang - Upon his back, and wildly shouted “On!” - A spring with gathered feet, a clash of wings, - That made me cling in terror, and we swept - From Earth into the air. Woods, plains, and streams - Flashed by beneath, as, up and on, we charged - Straight to the frowning cloud. - My very brain - Reeled with our lightning speed, and dizzy height, - And oh! how silent was the air. No sound, - Except the steady beat of fanning wings, - That hurled us on a rod at every stroke. - The bellowing winds were loosed and fiercely met - Our flight. They tossed the broad white mane across - My shrinking shoulders, like a scarf of silk; - They blew the strong-quilled feathers all awry, - And like a banner beat the silvered cloth; - But swerving not to right or left, we pressed - Straight onward to the goal. - At last I reined - My steed upon the shaggy ridge of clouds, - And caracoled along the beetling cliffs, - Up to the very summit. Then I paused. - Behind me lay the world with all its hum - Of life, the distant city’s veil of smoke, - The village gleaming white amid the trees; - The very orchard I had left, now seemed - A downy nest of green, and far away - I caught the shimmer of the sea, where sails, - With glidings, glittered like the snowy gulls. - Behind all was serene, before me seethed - The caldron of the tempest’s wrath. - Thick clouds, - Thrice tenfold blacker than the black outside - We see, deep in the crackling fire-crypts writhed, - And boiling rose and fell. A deafening blast - Roaring its thunder voice above the scene, - As if the fiends of Hell concocted there - The scalding beverage of the damned. - My horse - Had snuffed the fumes, and rearing on the brink, - That fearful brink, an instant pawed the air, - And then sprang off. A suffocating plunge, - Through heat and blinding smoke, while to his neck - Convulsively I clung! Down through the cloud, - Until I gasped for breath, and felt my brain - Was bursting with the fervid weight. - He stopped - Before a large pavilion, round whose walls, - As faithful guard, a whirlwind fierce revolved, - And at whose folded door, with dazzling blade, - The lightning stood a sentinel. My steed - Was passport, and I passed within, but stopped - Upon the threshold, dumb with awe. The walls - Seemed blazing mirrors, whose bright polished sides - “Threw back in flaming lineaments” the form - Of every object there,--a trembling wretch, - With pallid countenance, shown ghastly red, - Upon a horse of War’s own direful hue, - I saw reflected there. The floor seemed made - Of tesselated froth, whose bubbles burst, - With constant hissing, into rainbow sparks; - While like the sulph’rous canopy, that drapes, - At evening’s close, a gory battle-field, - The roof of crimson vapor drooped and rose, - With every breath and every slightest sound. - And in the center of the glowing room, - Upon a sapphire throne an Angel sat, - Upon whose brow Rebuke and Wisdom met. - He gazed upon me with such pitying look, - And yet withal so stern, that all my pride - Was gone, and humble as a conquered child, - I ran with trembling haste and near the throne - Kneeled down. - “Vain man,” he said, “and hast thou dared - To doubt the providence of God; Behold!” - And, lo! one side of the pavilion rose, - And out before me lay Immensity. - The frothy floor, now crumbling from the edge, - Dissolved away close to my very feet, - The walls contracted their three sides in one, - And I, beside a throne I dared not grasp, - Stood on a narrow ledge of fragile foam, - That clicked its thousand little globes of air, - With every motion of my feet. - Far down - Below, the black abyss of chaos yawned, - So vast, I gasped while gazing, and so deep, - The Sun’s swift arrowy rays flash down for years, - And scarcely reach the dark confines, or fade - Amid the impenetrable gloom. Methought - ’Twas Hell’s wide jaws, that opened underneath - The Universe, to catch as crumbs the worlds - Condemned, and shaken from their orbit’s track. - And long I looked into the vast black throat, - To trace the murky glow of hidden fire, - Or catch the distant roar. But all was still; - No murmur broke the silence of its gloom, - No faintest glimmer told of lurking light, - No smoky volumes curdled in its depths; - As dark as Egypt’s plague, serenely calm, - Defying light, the empty hall of Space, - Where twinkled not a star nor blazed a sun.-- - A grand eternal night! - I shuddering turned, - With freezing blood to think of falling there, - And stretched a palsied hand to touch the throne. - The Angel’s eye was sterner, as he waved - Towards my steed, who seemed of marble carved. - The wings unfolded, and he leaped in air, - Beating from off the ledge the flakes of foam - That sank, with airy spirals, out of sight. - With slanting flight across the gulf he sheared; - The moveless wings were not extended straight, - But stood, at graceful angle, o’er his back, - As, swifter than a swooping kite, he flashed - Adown the gloom. His flowing mane broad borne - Out level, like another wing; his feet - With slow ellipses moving alternate, - As if he trod an unseen path. ’Twas grand - To see his graceful form, more snowy white - Against the black relief, sublimely float - Across the dark profound, and down its depths, - Pass from my view. As when an Eagle soars - Beyond our vision in the azure sky, - We wonder what he sees, or whither flies, - So I stood wondering if he would return, - And what his destination down th’ abyss. - - Above, around, all was infinitude - Of light and harmony. The worlds moved on, - In mazy multitude, without a jar, - Star circling planet, planet sun, and suns - In systems, farther yet and farther still, - Till multiplying millions mingled formed - A sheet of milky hue. And far beyond - The last pale star, appeared a dazzling spot, - That flamed with brightness so ineffable - The eye shrank ’neath its gleam. And from its light, - Athwart the endless realms of space, there streamed - A radiance that illumed the Universe, - And down across the chasm of Chaos flung - A wavering band of purple and of gold. - And in that distant spot my ’wildered eyes - Traced out the figure of a Great White Throne, - Round which, in grand and solemn majesty, - Slow swept Creation’s boundless macrocosm.-- - I felt too insignificant to pray, - But mutely waited for the Angel’s words. - He spoke not, but the curtains closer drew, - And left a narrow opening in front. - Then with a speed the lightning ne’er attained, - Our cloud pavilion swiftly whirled through space. - A seed that would have slain me with its haste, - Had not the Angel been so near. - As on the cars, - We dash through towns, and mark the hurrying lights, - Or shudder at an engine rattling by; - So through our door, I marked the countless worlds, - In clustering systems, chained by gravity, - Flash by an endless course. A second’s time - Sufficed to pass our little group of stars, - That waltz about our Sun, as if it lit - The very Universe. Then systems came, - Round which our system moves, and these - Round others, till the series grew so vast - I shrank from looking. Great Alcyone, - Our telescopic giantess, a babe - Amid the monsters of the starry tribe, - The last familiar face in Heaven’s throng, - Blazed by the door; an instant, out of sight! - And after all that we have known or named - On Earth were far behind, the millions came - In endless multitude; and on we swept, - Till worlds became a dull monotony, - And all the wonders of the Heavens were shown. - A planet wheels its huge proportions past, - Its pimpled face with red volcanoes thick, - That, with our speed, seem girdling bands of light; - A Sun, whose flame would fade our yellow spark, - Roars out a moment at our narrow door - As through its blaze we fly, then dies away, - Casting a weird and momentary gleam - Over the Angel’s unrelenting face; - A meteor tears its whizzing way along, - All showering off the scintillating sparks - That mark its trail. Far off, a comet runs - Its bended course, the mighty fan-like tail - Lit with a myriad globes of dancing fire, - That seemed like Argus’ eyes on Juno’s bird. - And on we sped, till one last Sun appeared, - A monstrous hemisphere of concave shape, - And brilliancy intense; it seemed to stand - On great Creation’s bounds, a lense of light. - Close by its vast red rim we shaved, and passed - Beyond, to empty space unoccupied. - No world, no sun, no object passed the door; - The steady blue, tinged with a brightening gold, - Alone was seen. Still on and on we flew, - Until a score of ages seemed elapsed, - And I had near forgotten Earth and home. - - And yet the air grew brighter, till I feared - That we approached a sun, so infinite - In light, that I should sink in dazzled death. - - We came to rest, the curtains fell away, - And lo! I stood within the light of Heaven. - And oh! its glorious light! No angry red, - Nor blinding white, nor sickly yellow glare, - But one vast golden flood, sublime, serene, - No object near, on which it could reflect, - It formed the very atmosphere itself, - An air in which the soul could bathe and breathe, - And ever live without its fleshly food. - - No object near, for on the farthest bounds - Of space immense as mortal can conceive, - Creation hung, a group of clustering motes, - Where only suns were seen as tiny specks, - And Earth and smaller stars were out of sight. - No object near, for farther than the motes, - The walls of Heaven, in glorious grandeur loomed, - Yet near as flesh and blood could bear. - How grand! - From infinite to infinite extent - The glittering battlements were spread, the height - Above conception, built of purest gold, - Yet gold transparent, for I could discern - Though indistinctly, domes and spires beyond, - And all the wondrous workmanship divine, - That blazed with jewels, flashing varied hues - In perfect union; and bright happy fields, - That bloomed with flowers immortal, in whose midst - The crystal river ran. And through the scenes - Thronged million forms, that each sought happiness, - From million varied, purified desires. - Each face serenely bright as Evening’s star, - And some I thought I knew, were dear to me; - But as I gazed, they ever disappeared. - - Along the walls, twelve gates of pearl were seen, - So great their breadth, and high their jewelled arch, - That Earth could almost trundle in untouched, - And in each arch was fixed a giant bell - Of silver, with a golden tongue that hung, - A pendant sun. So wide the silver lips, - That Chimularee plucked up by the roots, - And as a clapper swung within its circ, - Would tinkle, like a pebble, noiselessly - Against the rigid side. And as the saved - Were brought in teeming host, by Angel bands, - Before the gates, the bells began their swing; - And to and fro the ponderous tongue was hurled, - Till through the portals marched the shouting throng, - And then it fell against the bounding side. - And loud and long their booming thunder - Rends the golden air asunder, - While the ransomed, passing under, - Fall in praise beneath the bells, - Whose mighty throbbing welcome tells; - And the Angels hush their harps in wonder-- - Bells of Heaven, glory booming bells! - - Gentler now, the silver’s shiver - Purls the rippling waves that quiver - Through the ether’s tide forever, - Mellow as they left the bells, - Whose softening vibrate welcome tells; - And the quavers play adown the river-- - Bells of Heaven, softly sobbing bells! - - Then the dreamy cadence dying, - Sings as soft as zephyrs sighing; - Faintest echoes cease replying - To the murmur of the bells, - Whose stilling tremor welcome tells, - Faintly as the snow-flakes falling, lying-- - Bells of Heaven, dreamy murmuring bells! - - And in and out those Gates of Pearl, there streamed - A ceaseless throng of Angels, errand bound. - From one came forth a band of choristers, - With shining harps, and sweeping out through space, - Their long white lines bent gracefully, they sang. - Although so far away, that purest air - Brought every note exquisite to my ear. - ’Twas richly worth life’s toil, to catch one bar - Of Heavenly melody. Oh! I would give - My pitiful existence, once again - To hear the strains that floated to me then, - So full, so deep, so ravishingly sweet; - Now gentle as a mother’s lullaby, - They almost died away, then louder rose, - And rolled their volumes through the boundless realms, - That trembled with the diapason grand; - Until eternal echoes caught the strain, - And glory in the highest swelled sublime. - - Entranced, I lay with ’wildered half-closed eyes, - Till from another gate, another host - Marched forth, the armies of the living God. - Beneath their thunder-tread all Heaven shook, - And at their head the tall Archangel strode. - How grandly terrible his mien! His face - Lit with a soul that only kneels to Three; - The lofty brows drawn slightly to a frown - The eyes that beam with vast intelligence, - The depths of distance piercing with their glance; - The chiselled lips, compressed with stern resolve, - Yet marked with lines and curves of tender love, - That ever with a sigh Wrath’s vial broke - Upon the doomed. His splendid form so tall, - That as he paused a moment in the gate - His dazzling crest just grazed the silver bell. - He wore no arms nor armor, save a sword - Without a sheath, that blazed as broad and bright - As sunset bars that shear the zenith’s blue-- - A sword, that falling flatly on the host - Of Xerxes, would have crushed them as we crush - A swarm of ants. An edge-stroke on the Earth - Would gash the rocky shell to caverned fire. - Unfolding wings would shake a continent, - He floated down the depths. Behind him came - A million foll’wers, counterparts in all, - Save presence of command. - I wondered not - That one should breathe upon the Syrian might, - And still the sleeping hearts, four thousand score. - - And from Creation’s little corner came - The Guardian Angels, bearing in their arms - Their charges during life. As laden bees, - They flew to Heaven’s hive; and some passed by - So closely I their burdens could discern; - And though they came from far-off, unseen Earth, - The stiffened forms were borne all tenderly. - Some bore the dimpled babe, with soft-closed eyes, - As if upon its mother’s breast; its hands, - Unhardened yet by toil of life, its face - Unfurrowed yet by care’s sharp plough; and some - The age-bent form, with ghostly silvered hair, - And features gaunt in death, that would have seemed - A hideous sight, in any light but Heaven’s; - Some bore the rich, who made of Mammon friends, - Who wore the purple with a stainless soul; - Some bore the poor, who mastered poverty, - And broke the ashen crust beneath God’s smile; - Their work-worn hands now folded peacefully, - And passing towards the harp, the weary feet, - So often blistered in life’s bitter dust, - To tread with kings the golden streets of Heaven; - And some the maiden form bore lovingly, - So fair, they seemed twin sisters. - And I saw, - That, passing through the amber air, they caught - Its glowing dust upon them, and were changed, - The livid to the radiant. Then as they - Approached the City, all the walls were thronged, - And all the harps were throbbing to be swept. - And mid the throng there moved a dazzling Form, - The jewels of whose crown were shaped like thorns. - He stood to welcome, and the gates unclosed, - And passing through them, all the death sealed eyes - Were opened, and they lived! - And then I knew - What happiness could mean. To leave the Earth, - With all its torturing pains and ills of flesh; - The lingering, long disease, the wasted frame, - And, e’en in health, the constant dread of death, - That like the sword of Damocles impends, - And none may tell its fall. - And worse than flesh, - The tortures of the mind in fetters bound; - Its chafings at its puling impotence, - Its longing after things beyond its reach, - Its craving after knowledge never given, - Its constant discontent with present time, - Its looking towards a future, that but breaks - To light alone in distance, never near; - Its maddening retrospect o’er wasted life, - And loss of golden opportunities; - Its consciousness of merit none admit, - Its sense of gross injustice from the world; - The forced reflections on the sway of self, - And consequent contempt for all mankind, - Or shameful servitude to their regard; - The poisoned thorns, that skirt the “Narrow Way”; - The sneering laugh, the tongue of calumny, - The envious spites and hates ’tween man and man, - The doubts that swarm with thought about our soul, - That whispers all our labor here is vain, - That death is but extinction, Heaven a myth! - - To leave all these, and find a perfect life, - To know that Heaven is sure eternally, - That sickness ne’er again will waste our frame, - That death shall never come again. The mind - In perfect peace and happiness; the hidden - Spread out before its ken; a sweet content - Pervading every thought, because “just now” - Yields happiness as great as future years; - Because Life’s highest end is now attained. - The consciousness of merit, with reward - Surpassing far all we deserved. A Home - Of perfect peace, no envious spite or hate - Within its sacred walls, but all pure love - Towards our fellows, gratitude to God, - A gratitude that all Eternal life - Will not suffice to prove. ’Twere joy enough - To lie before the Throne, and ever cry - Our thanks for mercy so supreme! And oh! - The vast tranquillity of those who feel - That life on Earth is ended, Heaven gained! - The Angel marked my gaze of rapt delight, - And said, “Wouldst thou go nearer?” Swift as light - We moved towards the City. On the steps, - In dreamy ecstasy, I lay, afraid to move, - Lest all the panorama should dissolve. - I cared not that I was unfit to go, - I cared not that I must return to Earth; - I felt one moment in the Golden walls - Was worth a dungeon’s chains “threescore and ten.” - The glory of its music, and its light, - Grew too intense, and sense forsook my brain. - - Again my eyes unclosed, and ’mid the stars, - Familiar faces of the telescope, - We sped, while on the last confines of space, - The City lay with golden halo girt. - The systems passed, we neared old homelike Earth; - And far enough to take a hemisphere - At single glance, we paused. The little globe - Was puffing on, like Kepler’s idea-beast, - With breath like tides, and echo sounds of life; - Thus trundling on its journey round the sun - While o’er its back swarmed men the parasites. - As rustic lad, who visits some great town, - Returns ashamed of humble country home, - So I now blushed to own the world I’d thought - Was once so great. - The Angel pointed down, - And said, “Behold the vast domains of Earth! - Behold the wondrous works of man, that calls - Himself the measure of the Universe! - Those gleaming threads are rivers, and the pools - His boundless oceans. Those slow-gliding dots - The gallant ships, in which he braves the storms - The largest white one, see, is laboring now - Beneath a cloud, your hand from here might span; - What tiny tossings, like a jasmine’s bloom - That drifts along the ripples of a brook! - Now on the wave, now ’neath it, now ’tis gone; - The pool hath gulfed it like a flake of snow. - See, there are railroad lines, what works of art! - Thou canst not see the blackened threadlike tracks, - But thou mayst see the thundering train, that creeps - Across the landscape like a score of ants - Well laden, tandem, crawl across the floor. - ’Twill take a day to reach yon smoky patch - Of pebbles! ’Tis a great metropolis! - Where Man is proud in power and lasting strength; - Where Art hath budded into perfect bloom, - Where towering domes defy the touch of Time, - And rock-ribbed structures reck not of his scythe - On every side, proclaimed Creation’s lord, - Poor flattered Man the title proudly takes-- - One little gap of Earth, and not a spire - Would lift its gilded vane; the very dust - Would never rise above the chasm’s mouth. - And mark yon crowd outside the city’s bounds, - They hail Man’s triumph over Nature’s laws; - He conquers gravity, and dares to fly! - The speck-like globe slow rises in the air, - While all the throng below shout, “God-like Man!” - How pitiful! The flag-decked car but drags - Its way, a finger’s breadth above their heads, - And falls, a few leagues off, into the sea; - When ships must rescue Man, the king of air! - “He soon will touch the stars,” enthusiasts cry; - His highest flights ne’er reach the mountain-top, - That lifts its mole-hill head above the plain. - - What different views above and underneath! - From one, the silken pear cleaves through the cloud, - And floats, beyond your vision, in the blue, - And franchised Man no longer wears Earth’s chain; - The other sees him drifting o’er the ground, - Beneath the level of the hills around, - The captive still of watchful gravity. - - Upon yon strip of land, two insect swarms - Are drawn up, front to front, in serried lines; - These are the armies, ’neath whose trampling tread - The very Earth doth tremble, now they join - In dreadful conflict. From the battling ranks - Leap tiny bits of flame, and puffs of smoke, - Where thundering cannon belch their carnage forth; - The heated missile cleaves its sparkling way, - The screaming shell its smoke-traced curve; the sword - Gleams redly with the varnish of its blood, - The bayonets like ripples on a lake. - How palsied every arm, how still each heart! - If one discharge of Heaven’s artillery roared - Above their heads--not that faint mutter thou - Perchance hast heard from some electric cloud, - But when a meteor curves immensity, - And bursts in glittering fragments that would dash - Thy world an atom from their path. But God - Hath thrown the blanket of His atmosphere - Around the Earth, and shield, it from the jar - Of pealing salvos, that reverberate - Through Heaven’s illimitable dome. - Yet thou, - The meanest of thy race of worms, hast dared - To question God’s designs. Know then that He - Ordains that all, His glory shall work out. - The coral architect beneath the wave - Doth magnify Him, as the burning sun - That lights a thousand worlds. His power directs - The mechanism of a Universe, - Whose vastness thou hast been allowed to see, - And yet the mottled sparrow in the hedge - Falls not without His notice. Magnitude - Is not the seal of power, though man thinks so; - The least brown feather of the sparrow’s wing, - In adaptation to its end displays - God’s wisdom, as the ocean. Harmony - Is Heaven’s watchword, key to all designs. - A tendency towards perfection’s end - Pervades Creation; to this perfect end, - The polity Divine is leading Earth. - Endowed with reason, Man, perforce, is free; - And God, forseeing how he’ll freely act, - Adjusts all circumstance accordingly. - The order of this sequence, Man doth learn - In part; adapts himself to these fixed laws; - And thus is formed a general harmony. - Although the individual may oppose, - His forseen freedom, acting in a net - Of circumstance, secures the wished-for end. - The bloodiest wars are sources of great good, - Invasive floods rouse national energies, - Or, mingling, form a greater people still; - Hume’s skepticism foils its own design, - And rouses lusty champions of the Truth, - Who build its walls far stronger than before. - Poor sordid Man! like all your gold-slave race, - You deem wealth happiness. Hence, all your doubts - About God’s providence are based on gold. - The wicked have it, and the righteous not. - What you assert is oftenest reversed, - And in a census of the world, you’d find - The good, in every land, the wealthiest. - But Earth is not the bar where Man is judged; - But only where free-will and circumstance - May join in general progress. Gold is good! - Then good depends on use of circumstance, - And not on moral merit. Well ’tis so! - For were the righteous only blessed, all men - Would righteousness pursue, from sordid aims,-- - The most devout, who love their money best; - And thus good actions’ essence would be lost, - That they be done for good, within itself, - And not for benefit to be conferred. - - Then for your doubts about the righteous poor; - A certain law is fixed for general good,-- - Some actions yield a gain and some a loss. - A wicked man may use the first, and gain, - A righteous man may use the last, and lose; - The wicked does not gain by wickedness, - But by compliance with this natural law. - The righteous, still as righteous, might have gained - By different course of conduct, had he known; - But his condition now, can but be changed - By special miracle; but miracles, - In favor of the righteous, would destroy - All strife for good as good. - Their compensation in another world; - The poor may find - And even here, in consciousness of right, - In surety of Heav’n, and peace of mind. - And in the case you’ve stated, like all those - Who talk as you have done, you overdraw, - And color more with Fancy than with Truth. - You’ll find no widow, perfect in her trust, - As you’ve described, who is so destitute. - Go search the lanes and alleys; where you find - The greatest squalor, there is greatest crime; - For poverty is oftenest but a name - For reckless vice, and vile depravity. - Your case is but exception to the rule, - And not the rule, of Providence. To give - The righteous, only, wealth and worldly store - Would take away Man’s freedom, and all good. - - But I will answer in your folly’s mode. - The justice, then, of Nature’s laws you doubt, - Forgetting they are fixed for general good, - And not for individual. These laws, - In their effects, you praise as very good; - Yet, in their causes, call the most unjust. - The fertile fields, with grain for man’s support, - Are nourished by a miasmatic air, - That, sickening but a few, feeds all the world. - While, were the air all pure, a few were well, - And millions starving. In the tropics, too, - The scenes you deprecate, themselves but cause - The very beauties you admire. Unjust, - You would enjoy effects without a cause. - The goods of Nature often take their rise - From what to man proves evil. For the goods, - He makes his mind to meet the evils; then - Can he complain, or think it hard to bear? - But Nature’s dealings towards Man are just. - He knows that he is free, and Nature not; - If he opposes Nature’s laws and falls, - Is Nature to be blamed? The widow’s cot - Is frail; the laws of general good require - A storm; it comes, and shattered falls the cot. - Should God have saved it by a miracle, - Then all His people could demand the same, - And Earth would soon become the bar of God, - God may exert a special providence, - But Man may not detect it, as the rule - Invariable of life, and still be free; - For he were thus compelled to seek the good. - Then Nature, over Man, holds not a tyranny, - But keeps the perfect pandect of her laws, - And Man is free to obey them, or oppose. - - Like shallow-thoughted reasoners of Earth, - You make assertions without slightest proof, - Or faintest shade of truth. Your thesis, this: - God marks with disapproval all the good, - And blesses all the evil with His smile. - Entirely false in every case! The good - Are ever happiest, in peace of mind, - In ease of conscience, and the hope of Heaven. - The wicked may be even rich, but wealth - And happiness are far from synonyms. - Is happiness the child of circumstance, - Or is it not the offspring of the mind? - And if the mind be tranquil and serene, - Does happiness not follow everywhere? - The cause of doubt in you, and many more, - Is that the thousands who profess the good, - Are ever mourning their unhappy lot, - And sighing o’er the gloomy, narrow way; - The tribulation of the promise read, - Without its good cheer context. These are they - Who stamp with misery’s blackest seal, a life - Of righteousness. By these you cannot judge, - For they are not what they profess, and would - Be miserable in Heaven, unless changed. - But take the truly good, one who’s content - To take whate’er befalls, submissively; - Who feels assured that all works for the best; - Take him, in all conditions, rich or poor, - In sickness or in health, in pain or ease; - Compare your happy wicked, with his gold, - ’Twill not require a moment to decide - Which one is happier! - Again, you ask - Why Man was not created happy, and kept so? - His very freedom and intelligence - Prevents a forcèd happiness. The ends - Of all Creation would be marred, and Man - Lose personality. A happiness - Made universal, asks morality - That’s universally compelled; and lost - Is all the scheme of virtue and reward. - Man, forced to action would degenerate - Into a listless, lifeless thing; the world - Lose all its fine machinery of thought - Combined with action. Beautiful variety - Could not exist, dull sameness would be life. - But Man is placed, with free intelligence, - Amid surroundings from which he may cull - A happiness intense, whate’er their nature be. - If bright, the consciousness they are deserved; - If gloomy, sweet reflections that they drape - A future all the brighter for their gloom. - - But Man, within himself, your puzzle proves; - And not to you alone, for Angel wings - Have hovered o’er your globe, and Angel minds - Peered curiously into his soul, to learn - Its mysteries, in vain. The Mind Supreme - That formed the soul, alone can understand - Its wondrous depths. ’Tis not surprising then - That Man has tried in vain to know himself. - His mind, compared with his body, seems so great, - He deems its power unlimited. He finds - It weak, before the barriers of thought, - That gird it, mountain high, on every side. - No path can he pursue that’s infinite. - And few exist, that do not thither lead. - Hence all the vagaries that have obtained - Among your race. The doubt of everything, - Is only too far tracing of a thought - Into absurdity intense. If you - Deem all the world effect upon yourself, - A principle of fairness would demand - That you accord the right to other men. - The question then arises, who is he - That really does exist, and all the rest - His ideas? Sure your neighbor has the right - To claim the honor, just as well as you! - Hume’s foolish thought, extended to its length, - Will answer not a single end of life, - And terminates in nonsense none believe. - - The conflict of the mental powers defeats - Your inquiries. You cannot reconcile - The unruled circumstance, with Man’s free-will - You deem the motive free, and Man its slave; - As if the motive, unintelligent, - Could have a freedom, or a slavery! - You make the motive to exist within the mind, - When it, perforce, must be without. You get - The unruled motive from the circumstance, - When this itself must act upon the mind, - And if _free_ motives rise within the mind, - They are a _part_, and therefore _mind_ is free. - And what you deemed a motive to the mind, - Was mental action, and its modes of thought. - The motive is confined to circumstance, - And mind the circumstance can oft control, - And even when it cannot, acts at will. - - The mind may to a kingdom be compared, - Where Reason occupies the throne. Beneath - Its scepter bow, in perfect vassalage, - The faculties, desires, and appetites. - These then are acted on by motive powers, - And straight report the action to their king, - Who does impartially decide for each. - The unruled motive is without the mind, - And forms no part of it, although the parts, - Receiving motive action, so are called. - Thus when you hunger, the desire of food, - Confined to mind, is not a motive power; - But urged by motive bodily demand, - It tells the need to Reason, who decides. - Thus when you pare your peach, the tempting fruit - And fleshly need, move on the appetite, - Who begs the Reason for consent to eat; - Your friend’s opinion of your self-control, - Is motive to Desire of esteem, - Who begs the Reason to refuse consent. - The Reason, then, like righteous judge, decrees - In favor of that one, more strongly shown; - And feels a perfect freedom in its choice. - - ’Tis most unfair to wait the action’s end, - Then cry, the mind was forced to choose this act; - But choice is Reason’s free decree. Sometimes - The Reason errs, and evil then ensues; - But Reason, now more conscious that ’tis free, - Regrets it had not acted otherwise. - By knowing what your reason deems the best, - You judge how other men will act. You learn, - By intercourse, what they permit to change - The Reason’s sentence. So, while with a friend, - You show your wealth, because you know he’s free, - And can, and will, resist impulse to crime. - Were he not free, you’d dare not go alone - With him, for, any moment, might arise - A motive irresistible, and he - Would kill and rob, because that motive’s slave. - Were he not free, you were no more secure, - In pleasant parlance, than on desert isle. - - The laws are made for man, alone, as free. - For, otherwise, the motives they present - Were blind attempts so coincide with Fate. - They would complete the gross absurdity, - Of Man collective governing himself, - And therefore free, while individuals - Are helpless slaves of motives they but aid - To furnish. - Fate, as held in fullest form, - Yourself has proved the theory of fools; - For were it true, a blind passivity - Were Man’s perfection on the Earth. Compare - The two; Free-will as held, whate’er their faith, - By every one, in daily practices; - A world of harmony, for very wars - Yield good; a mechanism complicate, - That even Angels, wondering at, admire; - A world, whose wondrous progress is maintained - By practical belief in liberty. - And on the other hand, behold a world - Of universal inactivity! - Its millions starving for delinquent Fate;-- - I doubt your faith would last till dinner-time, - A morning’s lapse would change a hungry globe - To firm belief in free-will work for food. - - With many, God’s foreknowledge binds free-will; - He knows the future, how each man will act, - And man can never change from what God knows. - They reason thus, that prescience is decree, - And what God knows will happen, must take place. - That God may know the future of _free_-will - I prove by this. Suppose two worlds alike, - And governed by two Gods. Each one can see, - And foresee all transpires in both the worlds, - Yet each o’er th’ other’s world exerts no power. - A man in one does wrong; the other God - May have foreseen the action for an age, - Yet had not slightest power to cause or stop. - Does his foreknowledge qualify the act? - If thus you can suppose, why not believe, - When errors flow from opposite belief? - God in the future stands, and waits for man, - Who works the present, only gift of Time. - There is no future save in God’s own mind. - Man’s future means continued present time; - God’s future is but present time to Him, - In which He lives, not will live when it comes. - Man’s acts He sees as done, not to be done. - And God compels not more than Man does Man, - Who sees his fellow’s deeds, not causes them. - Man only knows Man’s present acts; but God - The future sees, as present to His mind. - - To end with perfect proof, you know you’re free. - This all the world attests, and each believes. - How subtle soe’er may his reasoning be, - He contradicts it throughout all his life; - And all his plans, and all the right and wrong - Of self and friends he bases on free-will. - If disbelief no inconvenience prove, - Few men believe what is not understood; - And yet the most familiar things of life - Are far beyond their comprehensions’ power. - Who understands the turning of the food - To sinew, muscle, blood, and bone? yet who - Will starve because he knows not how ’tis done? - Who understands the mystery of birth, - And when and where the soul originates? - And yet a million mothers bend, to-day, - O’er tender babes, and know that they exist; - A billion people know they once were born. - Who understands the mystery of death, - And how the soul is severed from its clay? - Yet who has not wept o’er departed ones, - Received the dying clasp, the dying look, - And known, full well, Death’s bitter, bitter truth? - None comprehends the movement of a limb, - Yet many boast the powers of their’s might. - Then why doubt freedom of the will, when life, - In every phase, but proves its certain truth? - The edifice of shallow theorists - Before the sweeping blade of practice falls. - - Your dive into the heart yields folly’s fruit; - The selfish theory, carried to its end, - Makes wrong of right, and overturns the world. - And strong it is in seeming; for the self, - In human conduct, plays important part. - But ’tis not action’s only source, nor dims - The quality of every action’s worth. - ’Tis true that Man exists in self alone, - And in himself feels pain or pleasure. True, - An instinct teaches to avoid the one, - And seek the other; true, that every act, - How small soe’er, gives pleasure or gives pain. - Yet thousand deeds are done without regard - To one or other, or effect on Self. - Howe’er an action may affect the Self, - If he that acts has not a thought of it, - The action is not selfish. You appeal - To Man, and so will I appeal to you. - You find a helpless brute, with broken limb, - Upon the roadside, moaning out its pain. - Now, though to aid will surely pleasure give, - And to neglect will cause remorseful pain, - Is there a single thought of this, when you, - With kindest hand, bind up the swollen bruise, - And hold the grateful water to its mouth? - Is not each thought to ease the sufferer’s pain? - Is not the Self first found, when on your way - You go, with lighter heart, for kindness done? - And while you think with pleasure on the deed, - Would you not feel despised in your own eyes, - If consciousness revealed ’twas done for Self? - But should you say that Self was thus concealed, - And still evoked the deed, the argument - The same; if Self was out of thought, the deed - Had other source. - In all, you thus mistake - The deed’s effect, unthought of, for its source. - God, in His wisdom, hath affixed to good - Performed, a pleasure, and to evil, pain. - But selfish actions are not good, you’ve said, - And therefore cannot slightest pleasure yield. - Here, then, your system contradicts itself; - All actions emanate from love of Self, - To find the highest pleasure for that Self; - And yet the pleasure’s lost by very search; - What good soe’er apparently is sought, - The consciousness of selfish aims destroys. - And here is wisdom manifest. When Self - Would seek the good, for pleasure to the Self, - The pleasure is not found; but when it seeks - The good alone, true pleasure is conferred. - I mean the Self of soul, not Self of flesh; - For pleasure to the sense, to be attained - Is sought; these two are mingled intricate - (And hard to separate), in thousand ways. - But when Man’s higher Self would seek its good, - It must forget the Self. In every case - You instanced, Self of soul must be unthought, - For pleasure will not come at call of Self. - Your gambler none will doubt has selfish ends; - Not so the preacher, for his pleasure sought, - Would ne’er be found; it must be out of thought. - His burning eloquence, his pastoral care, - Can not proceed from any love of Self, - For Self would suffer, when it knew their source; - But as he acts from love of good as good, - The Self is happy. When he ascertains - That some have died in sin through his neglect, - The Self is grieved, not that it was uncared, - For care of Self would not allay the pain, - But that a duty had not been performed; - That good had been neglected, as a good. - The gambler’s object may be highest good - For Self, according to his estimate; - The preacher seeks a good, but not for Self; - When Self appears, the good to evil turns. - Nor is the mystic selfish in his cave, - Save that he buries talents in himself, - That might avail for good to other men; - But all his mind is bent on pleasing God, - His only thought of Self is for its pain; - And this he deems acceptable to Heaven. - You can not judge by your analysis, - But by what passes in the actor’s mind. - One surely then could not be selfish termed, - Who only lived to mortify the Self, - Howe’er mistaken may his conduct be. - Nor is the man, who gives his wealth away, - If from right principles he gives. ’Tis true, - He finds a pleasure in the deed when done, - But if to gain that pleasure he has given, - It turns to gall and wormwood in his grasp. - If two men matches light, and know full well, - If one is dropped, a house will be consumed, - He is the most guilty that allows its fall. - The miser, then, who knows he does a wrong, - Is by that knowledge rendered criminal. - “The quality of actions must be judged” - From their intents, that often differ wide; - The man who shoots his friend by accident - Has no intent, and therefore does no wrong; - But he who murders does a score of wrongs,-- - A score of basest motives prompt the deed, - All centred in the Self. The Christian’s work - Must, from its very nature, have no Self, - Or it becomes unchristian. Man can judge, - Not from effect, but motives ascertained - By inference, and experience. The law - Is formed hereon, and modified by years. - Time teaches men that punishment will stop, - And only punishment, the spread of crime. - Instinct and Nature’s order teaches you - That pain must follow wrong. A man commits - A crime; if left unpunished, he repeats; - And others, seeing his security, - Will do as he has done. So all mankind - Would hasten on to lawlessness and ruin. - But law, for real wrong inflicts a wrong, - Which would be just did it no farther go; - But it is proved expedient, inasmuch - As it prevents continued crime. Then death - By law can not be murder termed, since good - In aim and end, without malicious thought. - Thus good to many flows from wrong to one - (If that may wrong be termed that takes the rights - By conduct forfeited), who should receive, - Though none reaped benefit. For many’s good, - The law is made, yet never does a wrong - To individuals, unless deserved. - - Throughout your reas’ning, like all Earthly minds, - When dataless, essaying hidden truths, - You wander blindly in conjecture’s field, - And if you find the truth, it is a chance. - You fain would raise a stone of skepticism, - By granting souls immortal unto beasts; - You prove your pointer must possess a soul, - And by your argument, the trees have souls; - For when an oak has fallen, every twig - May still be there, and something, life, be gone. - A chair, a table, anything you see, - Possesses something, not of any parts, - But that to which the parts are said, belong, - Then, one by one, take all the parts away, - The something called the table must exist, - For ’twas not in a part, nor is removed. - - The mind of beasts exists but through their flesh, - And is developed subject to its laws, - And flesh is the condition of their life. - When flesh dissolves, the mind disintegrates, - And ceases to exist. Man feels within, - The consciousness of soul, that would survive - Though flesh were torn to shreds upon the wheel. - The parts of soul that live alone through flesh, - Must perish with it in the hour of death. - - But having postulated Self, as source - Of human conduct, you compel the acts - To fit your theory. You change effect - For cause. Where’er a moral pleasure’s found, - You judge that for its gain the deed was done; - As if the pleasure could be gained by search! - That Self does enter largely into inner life - Is very plain, for everything affects, - In some way, Self; but does the mind regard - Effect, or is its object something else? - The appetites, affections, and desires, - You make of selfish origin, yet know - That is not selfish, which alone affects; - But acting with a reference to effect. - The appetites are instincts; as you breathe, - You hunger, thirst, in helplessness. Not Self, - But food or drink, the object of your thought. - And even while the taste is in your mouth, - The mind dwells on the taste, not on the Self. - Desires are partly selfish in their mode; - Desire of knowledge, seeking honor’s meed, - Is selfish; led by curiosity, - ’Tis not more selfish than an appetite. - Desire of power, esteem, and wide-spread fame, - Is selfish, when the thought of their effect - On Self shapes out the conduct; when desired - For their own sake, unselfish. - On the list - Affections terminate, you falsely rail - The mother, and the lover; both sincere, - And both without a thought of selfish aim. - ’Tis no reproach to say the mother’s love, - In fervid instinct, and development, - Is like the cow’s, that God in wisdom gives. - No love so pure as that which moves the cow - To hover round her young, to bear the blows - Impatient hunger deals the udder drained, - To smooth with loving tongue the tender coat, - Or meet the playful forehead with her own; - With threatening horn, to guard approach of harm; - And watch, with ceaseless care, the charge in sleep. - Her careful love continues, till the calf - Has grown beyond her need, and ceases then. - A mother loves because it is her child: - This is the surest reason you could give. - Th’ affection is spontaneous in her breast, - But fed and strengthened by his life, if good. - The opposites to love you named, affect - Her love, by not an injury done to Self, - But by their evil, which her soul abhors. - Her son’s antagonism’s not to her, - But to the good she loves. Her heart withdraws - Its twining tendrils from unworthiness. - As usual, you select supposed effects, - And then assume their causes. Could you see - The mother’s heart, you’d find the loss of love - Caused not by wrong to her, but wrong abstract - Developed in the concrete deeds of crime. - Her love is governed by a moral sense, - Or idea of the good; the people’s thought - About herself comes in as after-part. - Bad treatment to herself, although it pain, - Deals not a fatal blow to love, except - As showing lack of principle in him. - And so your lover is not hurt in Self, - But moral sense. The loved one’s perfidy, - And not her ridicule, beheads your love; - Her stunning words were playful pleasantry, - Did they not show the baseness of the heart. - Indeed, to turn your reasoning on yourself, - Her manner even towards you has not changed, - And were you present, she would still seem yours; - Her eaves-dropped words do not affect the Self, - Save as they show her falsity of heart. - And tossing on your pillow, through the night, - The crushing thought of wrecked integrity - Gives deeper pain than all her ridicule. - And Self, though pained at thought of being duped, - Enjoys relief in thought of its escape. - To show that Love is built on higher grounds - Than paltry good for Self; that it must have, - As corner-stone, a percept of the good, - Existing in the object loved, suppose - You’re on the topmost height of wildest love, - Your arm around her, and your lingering kiss - Upon her lips; and Self is king of love. - She, nestling on your shoulder, finds ’tis wrong, - That love, however true, may grow too warm; - That every kiss, however pure, abstracts - Some little part from maiden modesty, - And steals a pebble from her honor’s wall - And rising with the firm resolve, says, “Cease, - Unwind your arm, restrain your fervid lips; - It may be wrong, and right is surely safe!” - Now though the Self is bitterly denied, - The rapturous clasp and tender kiss forbid, - Is not your love increased a thousand-fold? - Do not you feel intensely gratified - At this assurance of her moral worth? - And would you, for the world, breath aught to cause - Her pain, or least regret for her resolve? - How firm your trust, how sweet your confidence! - You know ’twas not capricious prudery, - For your caresses had been oft received; - Nor was it sly hypocrisy to win - Your heart, for that was long since hers. No thought, - But spotless purity, inspired the act; - And you are happy, though the Self’s denied. - - The little things of life, that men account - Without a moral value, may be done - With reference to Self; but oftenest, - The mind regards the act, not its effect - Upon the Self. The code of Etiquette, - The small amenities of social life, - The converse, and the articles of dress, - May all belong to Self; but moral acts, - Those known as right or wrong, have higher source - Than Self in any mode. - Within Man’s breast - There’s something, apprehending good and bad, - Called conscience, or the moral sense; it views, - Impartially, each act of his, decides - Its quality by rule of right and wrong; - All trust its judgments most implicitly.-- - The good is found, yields greatest happiness; - Yet seek it for the sake of happiness, - And good is evil, with its misery! - The good must be pursued, because a good, - The evil shunned, because an evil. Thus, - The moral sense discerns these qualities - In others, and directs our love. - A blow - The deadliest to our love, would be a blow - Aimed at the principle of good. A love, - Existing through the injuries done to Self, - May meet the public’s praise, and feel its own; - But love would merit self-contempt, that loved - Whate’er opposed the good. The son may treat - The mother with unkindness, yet her love - Be undiminished; if he lie, or steal, - Her love is less; she cannot love his deed, - And cannot love the heart from which they flow - So with the youth who gives his chair to Age, - He does not so resent that Self’s denied - Its meed of thanks, as that ingratitude - Should thus be manifest, in little things. - A comrade, served the same, would anger cause. - - But him who would give up the highest Self, - The soul, for others’ good, you deem a fool; - And ask why sacrifice ne’er claimed a soul? - Because the soul cannot be sacrificed; - No harm to that can others benefit. - But if it could, how truly grand the man - Who’d take eternal woe for fellow-men! - But God, who makes the soul the care of life, - Makes every soul stand for itself alone, - And in His wisdom hath ordained this law: - The greater good man gets for his own soul, - The greater good on others’ he confers, - While evil to himself, an evil gives. - - Then comes the question of this abstract good, - That moral sense declares the end of life. - What is its nature? whence does it arise? - And whence does man derive the half-formed thought? - You have compared the systems that define, - Each in its way, the hidden theory. - None satisfy, though each some element - Sets forth in clear distinctness. Take them all, - Select the true of each, as Cousin does, - And will eclecticism satisfy? - And does the soul not cry for something more? - For something that it feels ’twill never reach, - The good, as known to minds unclogged with flesh? - Man takes the dim outlines of abstract thought, - And seeking to evolve their perfect form, - The very outlines grow more indistinct; - As gazing at a star will make it fade. - Man’s only forms of good are blent with flesh, - And when he seeks to take the flesh away, - And leave the abstract, he is thus confused, - As if he should withdraw the wick and oil, - And seek to find the flame still in the lamp. - - To learn the source of ideas of the Good, - Trace Man collective, to his babyhood; - For ’mid the prejudice of full-grown thought, - The truth would be effectually concealed. - Through every people scattered o’er the globe, - There does prevail some idea of a God; - Though rude and barbarous this idea be, - It still, in some form, does exist. The good, - With all, bears reference to this thought; - And what this Deity approves is good, - And what He disapproves is bad. Men learn - What He approves, and what He disapproves, - By revelation, inference, and instinct. - God’s sanction then is origin of Good, - Though afterwards men learn the sweet effects, - And practise it for its own sake; and call - Their little effort, grandest abstract truth. - Developing in intellectual strength, - They plaster up this good in various forms, - Until, refined beyond all subtilty, - It seems to them a self-existent good. - - The good is then a certain quality, - In actions, or existence, that assures - Divine approval. This vast idea, God, - Creation sows in every human heart; - All Nature’s grand designs demand a God, - A God intelligent. The same instinct - That tells His being, teaches what He loves; - And what He loves with every people’s good. - But different nations entertain ideas - Diverse in reference to a Deity, - And different notions of what pleases Him. - One deems the care of God’s child-gift her good; - Another tears the heart-strings from her babe, - And feeds, for good, the sacred crocodile. - - The good lies in the thought of pleasing God: - The consciousness that God is pleased with us, - A pleasure yields, and good might there be sought - For pleasure’s sake, and prove a selfish aim; - But moral selfishness a pain imparts, - And good, for pleasure sought, defeats the search. - - The good is sought, because it pleases God, - Not with the doer, but with what is done. - Good has its origin in th’ idea God, - And what He loves; but to continue good - It must retain approval in the act, - And not transfer it to the agent’s self. - The consciousness that God approves a deed, - Makes Man approve, and thus his mind is brought - In correlation with the Mind Divine. - The man who does an alms, if done to gain - God’s favor for himself, feels selfish pain; - But if because the act, not he, will please, - He finds the pleasure. Man, as time rolls on, - Finds general laws that please or displease God, - And ranging, under these, subordinates - Amenable to them and not to God, - The moral quality of lesser deeds - He reckons by these laws, nor does ascend - To God, that gives their moral quality. - Jouffroy, in Order, placed the Abstract Good, - And paused a step below the real truth, - The idea God, whence Order emanates. - - Thus Man, progressing, good withdraws from God - And seems an independent entity, - And man denominates it, Abstract Good. - He can attain the Abstract but in part; - When mind is freed from flesh, he may attain - To its full grandeur. Here, at most, he grasps - A faint outline, and fits it on concrete. - No concept occupies one act of mind, - But opening the lettered label, he - May count the attributes, and by an act - Complex, of memory and cognition, gain - Some idea of his Abstract. Thus of “Man,” - One act can only cognize M-A-N, - But opening, he finds the attributes, - As “mammal,” “biped,” “vertebrate.” This act - Is complex, and he cannot unitize, - Save by the bundle of a word. You’ve said - It answers all the purposes of life, - Then why seek more? lest speculation vain - Point out dim realms, where Man can never tread, - These baffling thoughts are given, as peacocks’ feet, - To Man’s fond pride. The simplest avenue - Of thought, pursued, will reach absurdity, - To comprehension finite. - Even the truth - Of numbers you presume to doubt. Two balls, - You claim, can ne’er be two unless alike. - You mingle quantity and number, foolishly, - As if a ball the size of Earth, and one, - A tiny mustard-seed, would not be two! - You deem all Mathematics wide at fault, - Because Man’s powers to illustrate are weak. - Earth has oft seen a pure right angle drawn, - Because Man’s sight could not detect a flaw; - And if to his discernment perfect made, - He must admit its perfect form. If life, - In every intricate demand, finds truth, - Why seek to overturn by sophistry? - You see and know Achilles far beyond - The tortoise, yet the super-wise must prove - That he can never pass the creeping thing, - Although his speed a hundred times as swift! - When Man commences, he may find a doubt - In everything; his life, his neighbor’s life, - The outside world, may all be but a myth; - Then let him so believe, but let him act - Consistently; but does the skeptic so? - He crams all Nature in his little mind, - Yet how he cringes to her slightest law! - He flees the rain, and wards the cold, or fears - The lightning’s glittering blow. He doubts his frame - Can work by mechanism so absurd, - Yet will not for a day refrain from food! - - When Man compares his body and his mind, - And tries the power of each, he magnifies - The mind to Deity, and yet how small - Compared with what it has to learn! The more - Man knows, the more he finds he does not know; - And as a traveller toiling up the hill, - Each upward step reveals a wider view - Of fields of thought sublime he dares not hope - To ever reach in life; and wearily he sits - Him down upon the mountain-side, so far - Beneath its untrod top, and recklessly - Doubts everything, because beyond his grasp. - - All skeptic reasoning ends, as did your own, - No fruit but blind bewilderment of thought! - And none but fools will e’er believe sincere - The faith that doubts alone by theory, - And yet approves by practice. Such is yours; - The stern necessities of life demand - A practical belief, and such is given; - And still, forsooth, because your narrow mind - Cannot contain the Truth in perfect form, - You dare deny it does exist. But few - Of skeptic minds are let to live on Earth, - And even these made instruments of good, - In calling forth defenders of the Truth, - Who add their strength to its Eternal Walls. - Then here behold God’s wisdom manifest! - Amid the care of countless greater orbs, - He watches Earth, and knows its smallest thing. - While Man, as individual, is free, - Collective Man is being surely led - Towards an end, but when it will be reached, - God knows alone. Then Man will be removed - Into a higher or a lower sphere, - As he has worthy proved. With Man ’twill be - A great event; his awful Judgment-day! - When from those far-off realms, the Son shall come - With Angel retinue, and through the worlds, - Shall lead their solemn flight, to where we stand; - And as the trump shall peal its clarion tones, - And beat away Earth’s gauze of atmosphere, - The millions living, and the billions dead, - Will leave the sod, and “caught up in the air,” - Shall stand before the Throne, to hear their doom. - Then, faces pale with fear, and trembling limbs, - Will be on every side, as on the air - They rest, with nothing solid ’neath their feet; - And see dismantled Earth burst into flames, - And reel along its track, a globe of fire, - The volumed smoke, a dusky envelope; - Its revolutions wrapping pliant flames, - In scarlet girdles, round its bulging waist, - And hurling streams of centrifugal sparks, - In broad red tangents, from the burning orb. - Upon the conflagration Man will gaze, - With shuddering horror; ’tis his only home, - The scene of all his fame, the source of wealth, - For which he toiled so wearily. All gone! - He would not touch a mountain of pure gold, - For ’twould be useless now! Poor, pauper Man, - Without his money, chiefest aim of life, - Stands homeless ’mid a Universe, to learn - If God will be his Father, or his Foe! - And from the blackness underneath, the swarms - Of Evil ones are thronged, their hideous forms - Half shown in lurid light, as here and there - They flit, like sharks, expectant of their prey. - Then comes the closing scene. The sentence passed, - The righteous breaking forth to joyous praise, - Shall thread Creation’s wondrous maze of life, - And with their Leader, sweep towards yon Heaven; - While down the black abyss, with cries of woe - That make the darkness tremble, the condemned - Are dragged, into its gloom,--and all is o’er-- - Earth’s ashes float in scattered clouds through space-- - To Man the grandest era of all Time, - To God, completion of Salvation’s scheme! - - But Man deems Judgment too far off for thought, - Nor will prepare for such a distant fate; - Yet there is something, far more sure than aught - Uncertain life can offer; its decision, too, - Is just as final as the Judgment doom; - And still ’tis oftenest farthest from the thought. - ’Tis Death, the welcome or unwelcome guest - Of every man, and yet how few prepare - For its approach! They give all else a care; - Wealth, honor, fame, get all their time, - While certain Death’s forgotten, till disease - Gives warning; then with hasty penitence, - The knees are worn, the heart’s thick rubbish cleared; - But oft too late; the heart will not be cleared, - The stubborn knees will not consent to bend, - The house is set in order, while the guest, - In sable robes, stands at the throbbing door. - - And now to close thy lesson, look through this! - He gave to me a strangely fashioned glass, - Through which, when I had looked to Earth, I saw - A long black wall, that towered immensely high, - So none might see beyond. Before its length, - Mankind were ranged, all weaving busily; - The young and old, the maiden and the man; - The infant hands unconscious plied the thread, - The aged with a feeble, listless move. - They wove the warp of Life, and drew its thread - From o’er the wall; none knew how far its end - Was off, nor when ’twould reach the busy hand, - Nor did they care, in aught by action shown, - But bending o’er their work, without a glance - Towards the thread, that still so smoothly ran, - They threw the shuttle back and forth again, - Till suddenly the ravelled end appeared, - Fell from the wall, and to the shuttle crept; - And then the weaver laid his work aside, - With folded hands, was wrapped within his warp, - To wait the Master’s sentence on his task. - I saw the thread, in passing through their hands, - Received the various colors, from their touch, - And tinged the different patterns that they wove. - And oh! how different in design! Some wove - A spotless fabric, whose pure simple plan - Was always ready for the ending thread; - Come when it would, no part was incomplete; - But what was done, could bear th’ Inspector’s eye. - And others wove a dark and dingy rag, - That bore no pattern, save its filthiness; - Fit garment for the fool who weaves for flames! - Some wove the great red woof of war, - With clashing swords, and crossing bayonets, - With ghastly bones, and famished widows’ homes, - With all the grim machinery of Death, - To gain a paltry crown, or curule chair; - Perchance, before the crown or chair is reached, - The thread gives out, the work is incomplete, - And in the gory cloak his hands have wrought, - With all its stains unwashed, the hero sleeps. - Some shuttles shape the gilded temple, Fame, - And count on thread to weave its topmost dome; - But ere the lowest pinnacle is touched, - The brittle filament is snapped. Some weave - The bema, with its loud applause; and some - The gaudy chaplet of the bacchanal, - And others sweated bays of honest toil. - But all the fabrics bear the yellow stain - Of gold, o’er which the sinner and the saint - Unseemly strive, and he seems happiest - Whose work is yellowest. - Along the wall, - “A fountain filled with blood,” plays constantly, - Where man may cleanse the fabric as he weaves; - Yet few avail themselves; the waters flow, - While Man works on, without regard to stains, - Till thread worn thin arouses him to fear, - Or breaks before the damning dyes are cleansed. - - And down the line I ran my anxious eyes, - To find a weaver I might recognize, - And saw, at last, a form by mirrors known. - Oh! ’twas a shameful texture that I wove, - So dark its hue, so little saving white, - Such seldom bathing in the fountain stream, - I could not look, but bowed my blushing face, - And like the publican of old, cried out, - “Be merciful to me a sinner!” - “Rise!” - The Angel said, “And worship God alone, - Return to Earth, enjoy an humble faith, - Whose simple trust shall make thee happier - Than all the grandeur of philosophy. - Should doubts arise, remember, God’s designs - Above a finite comprehension stand, - And finite doubts, about the Infinite, - Assume absurdity’s intensest form. - Man, from the stand-point of the Present, looks, - And disappointed, bitterly complains - Of what would move his deepest gratitude, - Could he the issue of the morrow know. - God sees the future, and in kindness deals - To every man his complement of good. - Remember then the weakness of thy mind, - Nor doubt because thou canst not understand. - To gather scattered jewels thou must kneel; - So on thy knees seek truth, and thou shalt find; - The nearer Earth thy face, the nearer Heaven - Thy heart. And now farewell!” - I sprang to clasp - His hand in gratitude, but with a wave - Of parting benediction, he was gone! - Then in an instant, like an aerolite, - With naught to bear me up, I fell to Earth, - Swifter and swifter, with increasing speed! - Now bursting through a sunlit bank of cloud, - And clutching, vainly, at the yielding mist, - Or through a cradling storm, with thunder charged, - Down through the open air, whose parted breath - Hissed death into my ears, while all below - Seemed rushing up to meet and mangle me. - I shrieked aloud, “Oh save me!”-- - And awoke. - The day was o’er, and night had drawn her shades; - The twinkling eyes of Heaven shone through the leaves, - And lit the tiny rain-globes on the grass; - The cloud had passed, and on th’ horizon’s verge, - A monster firefly, with shimmering flash, - It slowly crawled behind the curve of death. - And evening’s silence deeper seemed than noon’s, - For not a sound disturbed the hush of night, - Save katydids, with quavering monotones, - Returning contradictions from the trees. - All drenched and chilled, with trembling limbs I rose, - And homeward bent my steps; and pondering - Upon my dream, this moral from it drew: - Man cannot judge the Eternal Mind by his, - But must accept the mysteries of Life, - As purposes Divine, with perfect ends. - And in our darkest clouds, God’s Angels stand, - To work Man’s present and eternal good. - - - - - THE VILLAGE ON THE TAR - -DEDICATED TO PETTIGREW COUNCIL NO 1. F. OF T. - - - A drunkard in a distant town lay dying on his bed, - There was lack of woman’s gentle touch about his fevered head, - But a comrade stood beside him, and wiped the foam away, - That bubbled through his frothy lips, to hear what he might say. - The poor inebriate faltered, as he caught that comrade’s eye, - And he said, “’Tis hard, far, far from home ’mid strangers thus to die. - Take a message and a token to my friends away so far, - For Louisburg’s my native place, the village on the Tar. - - “Tell my brothers and companions, should they ever wish to know - The story of the fallen, ah! the fallen one so low, - That we drank the whole night deeply, and when at last ’twas o’er, - Full many a form lay beastly drunk along the barroom floor. - And there were ’mid those wretches some who had long served sin, - Their bloated features telling well what faithful slaves they’d been; - And some were young and had not on the Hell-path entered far-- - And one was from the village, the village on the Tar. - - “Tell my mother that her other sons may still some comfort prove, - But I, in even childhood, would scorn that mother’s love; - And when she called the children to lift up the evening prayer, - One form was always missing, there was e’er one vacant chair, - For my father was a drunkard, and even as a child - He taught my little feet to tread the road to ruin wild; - And when he died and left us to dispute about his will, - I let them take whate’er they would, but kept my father’s ‘still,’ - And with sottish love I used it till its venomed ‘worm’ did gnaw - My soul, my mind, my very life, in the village on the Taw.[A] - - “Tell my sister oft to weep for me with sad and drooping head, - When she sees the wine flow freely, that poison ruby red, - And to turn her back upon it, with deep and burning shame, - For her brother fell before it and disgraced the fam’ly name. - And if a drunkard seeks her love, oh! tell her, for my sake, - To shun the loathsome creature, as she would a deadly snake, - And have the old ‘still’ torn away, its fragments scattered far, - For the honor of the village, the village on the Tar. - - “There’s another, not a sister; in the merry days of old, - You’d have known her by the dark blue eye, and hair of wavy gold; - Too gentle e’er to chide me, too devoted e’er to hate, - She loved me, though oft warned by all to shun the dreaded fate. - Tell her the last night of my life--for ere the morning dawn, - My body will be tenantless, my clay-chained spirit gone-- - I dreamed I stood beside her, and in those lovely blue depths saw - The merry light that cheered me, in the village on the Taw.[A] - - “I saw the old Tar hurrying on its bubbles to the sea, - As men on life’s waves e’er are swept towards eternity; - And the rippling waters mingled with the warbling of the birds, - Returned soft silvery echoes to my deep impassioned words; - And in those listening ears I poured the sweet tho’ time-worn story, - While swimming were those love-lit eyes, in all their tear-pearled glory; - And her little hand was closely pressed in mine so brown and braw, - Ah! I no more shall meet her, in the village on the Taw.”[A] - - He ceased to speak, and through his frame there ran a shiver slight, - His blood-shot eyes rolled inward and revealed their ghastly white, - His swollen tongue protruded, o’er his face a pallor spread, - His comrade touched his pulse--’twas still--and he was with the dead. - The moon from her pavilion, in the blue-draped fleecy cloud, - Through the window o’er the corpse had thrown her pale but ghostly shroud, - The same moon that gazing upon that couch of straw. - Was bathing in a silver flood the village on the Taw.[A] - -[A] The Indian name of this river was _Taw_.--PUBLISHER. - - - - - REQUIESCAM - - - Oh! give me a grave in a lone, gloomy dell, - By the side of a deep, swift creek, - Where the ripples run like a tinkling bell, - Through the grassy nooks, where love so well - The minnows to play hide and seek! - - Where in summer the thick twining foliage weaves - A green, arching roof upon high, - And the rain-drops fall from the dripping eaves, - Like tears of grief from the weeping leaves - On the face upturned to the sky! - - Where the silence frightens the birds away, - And all is still, dreary and weird, - Except, perchance at the close of day, - The bittern’s boom or the crane’s hoarse bray, - Floating over the swamp, is heard. - - Where the dusky wolf and the antlered deer - Ever shun the dark, haunted ground; - Where the crouching panther ventures near, - His tawny coat all bristling with fear, - At the sight of the low, red mound. - - Where at twilight gray, the lone whippoorwill - May perch on the stake at my head, - And with its unearthly, tremulous trill - The dreary gloom of the whole place fill - With a requiem over the dead. - - Where the greater the ruin in earth’s damp mold, - The greater the contrast will prove, - When the weary wings of my spirit I fold, - In heaven, and swell with a bright harp of gold, - The grand pealing anthem of love. - - _February 9th, 1867_ - - - - - LINES TO AN ANALYTICAL GEOMETRY - - KNOWN TO THE STUDENTS AS “MISS ANNIE” - - WRITTEN AT THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA, 1866 - - - At “Elysium” chum and I were sitting, - Across our vision memories flitting, - Talking, smoking, often spitting - On the hearth, not on the floor; - When suddenly we heard a spluttering, - As of book leaves madly flutt’ring, - Some one there seemed slowly mutt’ring, - At the bookcase, not the door. - - Wildly springing to my feet - (Chum with fright seemed tied t’ his seat), - Dreading, fearing I should meet - What so like a ghost had spoken-- - Fellow members, if you’re able - To believe what seemed a fable, - I saw “Miss Annie” on the table, - With rage and anger almost choking. - - Then without a bow or bend, - Sitting up upon one end, - Without preface thus began-- - While we both in wonder stared: - “O ye worthless lazy scamps! - Talk about your midnight lamps, - While I’m in the bookcase crampt, - To what can such Sophs be compared? - - “Here you’ll sit and smoke and talk, - To-morrow morn to black-board walk, - Seize your ‘ruler’ and your chalk, - Then I hope get badly ‘rushed.’ - Oh! the present generation, - Such neglect to education, - Blood and scissors! thunderation!” - She was so mad the tears forth gushed. - - Chum and I had heard enough - To put us both in quite a huff, - So just to stop her noisome stuff - I sprang and seized her by the collar. - George jumped up and grabbed the poker, - Shouted, “Edwin, try to choke her! - We’ll stop her mouth, a darned old croaker, - Squeeze her tight and make her ‘holloa.’” - - To the fire we held her near, - Still she showed no signs of fear. - “Shall the red coals be your bier?” - She shook her leaves and fluttered, “No.” - Now my face with anger flushes, - Covered first with scarlet blushes, - I cried, “Will you again e’er ‘rush’ us?” - Quoth Miss Annie, “Evermore.” - - “Book or fiend,” I cried, up starting, - “Be that word our sign of parting.” - Then I, in my vengeance darting, - Hurled her in the embers red. - She slightly quivered, slowly burned; - From the sickening sight I turned, - Yet from her this lesson learned, - Prepare before you go to bed. - - - - - LINES TO COUSINS C. AND E. - - ON THE BIRTH OF THEIR LITTLE DAUGHTER - - - The marriage over, from the train - Of watching seraphs, one long strain - Of gratulation broke. - And then were still the rustling wings, - And fingers hushed the throbbing strings, - While thus an angel spoke: - - “Who’ll go to earth to bless this pair - With angel child, beneath their care - Be trained for bliss or woe?” - He ceased, and from the throng sprang three, - Faith, Love, and spotless Purity. - These knelt, and said “We’ll go.” - - Dear cousins, to you these are sent, - Three spirits in one being blent. - It is a jewel rare. - Oh! keep her pure as when first given, - Guide her faith from Earth to Heaven, - Guard her love with care. - - _May, 1867._ - - - - - THE DEVIL OUTDONE; - - OR, - - THE GUARD OF THE SULPHUR LAKE - - -To her who sent me the Valentine with the cutting irony, “Don’t I look -pretty in church?” these lines are respectfully inscribed. Not knowing -her name, I will call her “Taters,” as she drew her elegant and tasty -simile from that vegetable. - - The Devil was sitting one morning below, - And he seemed much perplexed as to what he must do, - For his dark brows would knit, and he’d stamp on the ground, - And flap his great wings till floating around - Were the ashes and feathers. - At last with an air - Of resolve he threw himself back in his chair, - Lit a brimstone cigar, and touched a small bell. - An imp appeared, bowed, and on his face fell. - “Cloven-foot,” said the D----, “what’s the news from the fire?” - “My liege, the great ape has ceased to inspire - The victims with terror; they fear him no more, - And continually crawl from the flames to the shore.” - “Well, Cloven-foot, I had most certainly thought - When from Africa’s wilds that baboon you brought, - He’d prove such a guard for the great Sulphur Lake - The wretches would ne’er cease before him to quake. - Now go up to earth, and search till you find - Something uglier far, then quick seize and bind - And bring it to me; and if it beats the baboon - I’ll reward you. Be sure to return just as soon - As ’tis possible, and above all things to choose - An object whose countenance never will lose - Its hideous novelty.” The imp bowed and withdrew, - And swiftly to earth on his errand he flew; - But in vain did he search where the gorillas roam, - Or the jungles of Bengal, the fierce tiger’s home. - In vain throughout Europe he searched every place; - Nowhere could he find the requisite face. - Frustrated and weary, with deep despair frantic, - He was skimming the waves of the tossing Atlantic. - A few pinion strokes, and he stood on the shore - Of the New World, and through it began to explore. - But all was in vain, till he chanced to alight - In a sweet little village, one smiling morn bright. - Disguising himself, he attended the church, - Not hoping to find the object of search, - But just for the fun. - As he stood with the throng - That were watching the College girls marching along, - He caught a slight glimpse of Miss “Tater’s” sweet face; - He sprang to her side, clasped her in embrace, - And as he plunged downward he said to himself, - “Here’s one will compete with the African elf.” - He soon furled his wing on the Plutonian shore, - And to his dark ruler his fair burden bore. - As the Valentine sender came into sight - The Devil himself started back with affright. - “Whew! whew!” whistled he, “she’ll do, I declare! - Go bring the baboon, and let them compare.” - The imp disappeared, then returned with the ape, - A creature most frightful in feature and shape. - His head was oblong and perfectly bald, - Running back from his eyes--no forehead at all; - His eyeballs were white, their sockets deep red; - His long, glistening teeth strung with human-flesh shred, - The gore of his victims from his fingers’ ends flowed; - And round his lank limbs candescent chains glowed, - In front of Miss “Taters” this creature was led; - He gave a look, yelled, and fainted stone dead. - “By my tongs,” quoth the Devil, “she’s rather too hard - For the old fellow; she’ll make a capital guard. - Take her down to the fire.” The imp led the way - And far down they went from the clear light of day, - Down, down, till the air was all smoky and red, - Till the tumult of hell seemed bursting her head; - Down, down, till the piteous wails and the moans - Of the tortured but echoed the jeers and the groans - Of the fiends. Down, down, till they came to the lake - That scorches and scalds, but never will slake - The thirst of its victims. Far out on its breast - It would heave them anon on the red foaming crest - Of a billow, then plunge them far deeper beneath - Its boiling bosom, in torture to seethe. - Along the hot shore the poor creatures would crawl, - To pant and to rest from their terrible thrall. - From their bodies all smoking the lava would stream, - While the shriveled flesh peeled from each quiv’ring limb, - And their heart-piercing shrieks rose higher and higher, - As the tongue of each wave licked them back in the fire. - But as soon as Miss “Taters” had come where they were - Every noise was hushed, not a sound could you hear. - ’Twas a wonder indeed, and the wonder increased, - When the billows of crimson their torture surge ceased. - When the imp had examined more closely, he found - The victims had fainted, the fire gone down. - He hurried her back to his master and said, - “The fires are out, and the wretches are dead.” - “What, the fires extinguished! those fires of old! - Take her back! I begin e’en myself to feel cold! - She’ll ruin us all with her terrible face; - She’s rather hard-favored for even this place.” - - _April, 1867._ - - - - - THE SUNFLOWER - - LINES SUGGESTED BY OBSERVING GEN. PETTIGREW’S NAME OMITTED IN MRS. - DOWNING’S “MEMORIAL FLOWERS” AND IN THE “SOUTHERN BOUQUET” - - - When poets cull memorial flowers, - With which our martyrs’ graves to strew, - They choose no one in Nature’s bowers - For Pettigrew. - - Yet there is one, and only one, - Which truly represents his name; - A flower that revels in the sun, - And drinks his flame. - - A flower that opens when, all red, - The sun hath kissed the eastern skies; - But westward turned, it droops its head - And proudly dies. - - Thus when the sun of victory sheared - Its gory way o’er clouds of war, - This flower’s tow’ring crest appeared - A beacon star. - - And in its gorgeous, glorious rays, - This flower basked, and only bowed - When coming conquest’s bloody haze - That sun did shroud. - - Crushed flower, with thy broken stem, - I’ll keep thee near to typify - The fallen form; the hero’s fame - Can never die. - - _June 19th, 1867._ - - - - - AN ELEGY - -WRITTEN ON THE ROTUNDA STEPS, UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, 1868 - - - The bell the knell of evening lecture tolls, - The thronging students pour from every door; - The tutor gathers up his notes and rolls, - And homeward wends his weary way once more. - - The noisy crowd is gone, there is a pause, - And hushed is all the busy hum and whirl, - Save where from yonder room breaks loud applause - That welcomes some professor’s parting “curl.” - - Save that from yonder plain, the lower lawn, - Some base-ball novice makes harsh rhyms to _psalm_, - Because a veteran, with his hands of horn, - Has “pitched” too “hot” a ball for his soft palm. - - Beneath those balconies, along those rows, - Where sinks the wall in many a jail-like cell, - Each wrapped in silence now and in repose, - The minstrels of the “Calathump” do dwell. - - The whispered call of evil-masking night, - The signal whistle of the well-known crew, - The bumping bang of “blowers” beat with might, - Will often rouse the “Nippers of Peru.” - - For them in vain for hours their hearts will burn, - While busy housewives tremble at their noise, - And frightened children to their fathers turn, - Too badly scared to think of play or toys. - - Oft has th’ rotunda echoed to their songs, - In dulcet strains that on the still air broke; - Oft has the lawn resounded with their gongs, - That roared and rattled ’neath their sturdy stroke. - - Let not their victims mock th’ infernal din, - Coal-scuttle drums, and clarion paper trump; - But let them hear with a sardonic “grin,” - The hideous clamor of a “Calathump.” - - The boast of Mozart, or Beethoven’s pride, - The sweetest notes Von Weber ever gave, - Alike would prove harsh dissonance beside - The gushing concord of one college stave. - - To-night upon their pillows will be laid - Heads that are pregnant with some secret plan; - Hands that a “poker” often may have swayed, - Or waked to ecstasy an old tin pan. - - In vain grave study holds before their gaze - Her ample page and honor’s glittering roll; - The fire of “frolic” in their bosom plays, - And warms the devilish current of their soul. - - Full many a mind that might have nations hurled - About as toys, has hid its talents rare; - And many a voice that might have moved a world, - Has cracked in shoutings on the midnight air. - - Some village Hampden here by night may bawl, - Some unknown Milton, but by no means mute; - Some David that may soothe a savage Saul, - As yet entirely guiltless of a lute. - - The applause of gaping urchins to command, - The darkies’ laughter at their quaint disguise, - A few short words from some one to the band, - This is their sole reward, their hard-earned prize. - - But who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, - Would start to nip with dry and husky throttle? - Whene’er they march along the Devil’s way, - They take his own peculiar seal, the bottle. - - Amid the madding crowd that gathers thick, - A moving pandemonium they stray, - And down those much frequented walks of brick - They hold the noisy tenor of their way. - - - THE EPIGRAM - - Here go at last, all yelling to the town, - A band of youths to Judson’s too well known; - Fair science ever met their darkest frown, - And foul intemperance marked them for her own. - - Small is their bounty, but “a drink” they chime, - As round the crowded counter many jam; - Each gives to Judson (all he has) a dime, - Each gets from him (’tis all he wants) a dram. - - _January, 1868._ - - - - - FIRE EYES - - - Hast thou on summer’s eve ere marked - The storm on cloud wings soaring high, - And spreading far his pinions black, - Across the blue good-natured sky? - And hast thou seen from ’neath his brow - The lightning’s eye gleam fiercely bright, - As if to pierce a thousand foes - With daggers of his living light? - As flash the lightnings in the skies, - So gleam, when angry, “Fire Eyes.” - - Hast thou on autumn eve e’er seen - The sun just nestling on his pillow, - While sapphire clouds were silver-fringed, - As seafoam crests the surging billow? - And hast thou seen the golden gaze - The sun bestows on Nature fair, - That dyes the gorgeous landscape o’er - And almost melts the amber air? - As beams the sun on autumn skies - So smile, when pleased, bright “Fire Eyes.” - - - - - MY DARLING’S JESSAMINE - - - ’Twas only a sprig of white jessamine, - That came in a letter she wrote; - But I value it more than the costliest vine - Whose tendrils o’er marble-carved trellis-work twine: - _’Twas worn at my darling one’s throat_. - - A throat that encages the nightingale’s trill, - And sweetens each silvery note, - And I think as I hear, in a rapturous thrill, - Her voice, whose volume can heaven’s dome fill, - That the _angels have lent her a throat_. - - More sweet than exotics that Fashion dupes wear - As through the gay ballroom they float! - In the leaves of my Bible I laid it with care, - More _sacredly dear_ than a _buried friend’s hair_ - Since worn at my darling one’s throat! - - _July, 1870._ - - - - - THE PARTING SHIP - - - In pensive mood I stood upon the quay, - Where busy Commerce plied her energy; - Where loading vessels hung their sails at rest, - And rose and fell, upon the water’s breast. - Where busy little tugs with hissing steam - Buried their noses in the foaming stream. - Near by, a steamer in a paneled wharf - Chafed at her chains and panted to be off. - A strange, mysterious ship, no pennon bold - Her nation or her destination told; - No crew was seen, no farewell song was sung, - No parting loved ones to each other clung; - No wife was weeping on her husband’s neck, - No mother blessed her wayward boy on deck. - A ceaseless throng pressed through the cabin door, - As if they longed to leave their native shore; - No backward glance, no tearful farewell view, - And no one seemed to think home worth adieu. - At last the bell was rung, the plank was drawn, - And with a shivering sigh, the ship was gone. - Then as I marked her curving track of foam, - I wondered in what waters she would roam; - I thought of those on board, the reckless air - Of their departure, and I breathed a prayer. - A red-haired man stood turning up a wheel, - That wound a clanking chain upon a reel; - I laid a coin upon his brawny hand, - And asked him, “Who thus leave their native land?” - He leaned upon his wheel and closed one eye, - As if the lid were burdened with a sty; - Then with a laugh he answered, “By the devil’s spleen and liver, - It’s on’y a Fulton ferry-boat a’gwine a’gross East River.” - - - - - TO M----, FROM E---- - - WRITTEN ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BIBLE - - - One year of sweetest love intense! - One year of mutual confidence! - One year of gazing into eyes, - In which the love-light never dies! - One year of clasping hands, that thrill - With throbbing love from life’s red rill - One year of clouds, whose transient shade - The after glory brighter made! - One year of doubts, whose fleeting rust - Could not corrode our links of trust! - One year of prayer, whose pleading tone - Has for _each other_ sued the Throne! - One year _together_--may it prove - Prophetic of our earthly love! - One year _each other’s_--may it be - A type of our _eternity_! - - _Sunday, May, 1871._ - - - - - UNDER THE PINES - -“TELL THEM TO BURY ME UNDER THE PINES AT HOME.” FROM “SEA GIFT.” - - - I would not rest in the moldering tomb - Of the grim church-yard, where the ivy twines, - But make me a grave in the forest’s gloom, - Where the breezes wave, like a soldier’s plume, - Each dark-green bough of the dear old pines; - - Where the lights and shadows softly merge, - And the sun-flakes sift through the netted vines; - Where the sea winds, sad with the sob of the surge, - From the harp-leaves sweep a solemn dirge - For the dead beneath the sighing pines. - - When the winter’s icy fingers sow - The mound with jewels till it shines, - And cowled in hoods of glistening snow, - Like white-veiled sisters bending low, - Bow, sorrowing, the silent pines. - - While others fought for cities proud, - For fertile plains and wealth of mines, - I breathed the sulph’rous battle cloud, - I bared my breast, and took my shroud - For the land where wave the grand old pines. - - Though comrades sigh and loved ones weep - For the form shot down in the battle lines, - In my grave of blood I gladly sleep, - If the life I gave will help to keep - The Vandal’s foot from the Land of Pines. - - * * * * * - - The Vandal’s foot hath pressed our sod, - His heel hath crushed our sacred shrines; - And, bowing ’neath the chastening rod, - We lift our hearts and hands to God, - And cry: “Oh! save our Land of Pines!” - - - - - THE LAST LOOK - - TO MARY - - - Do not fasten the lid of the coffin down yet; - Let me have a long look at the face of my pet. - Please all quit the chamber and pull to the door, - And leave me alone with my darling once more. - - Is this little Ethel, so cold, and so still! - Beat, beat, breaking heart, ’gainst God’s mystic will, - Remember, O Christ, thou didst dread thine own cup, - And while I drink mine, let thine arm bear me up. - - But the moments are fleeting: I must stamp on my brain, - Each dear little feature, for never again - Can I touch her; and only God measures how much - Affection a mother conveys by her touch. - - Oh! dear little head, oh! dear little hair, - So silken, so golden, so soft, and so fair, - Will I never more smooth it? Oh! help me, my God, - To bear this worst stroke of the chastening rod. - - Those bright little eyes that used to feign sleep, - Or sparkle so merrily, playing at peep, - Closed forever! And yet they seemed closed with a sigh, - As if for our sake she regretted to die. - - And that dear little _mouth_, once so warm and so soft, - Always willing to kiss you, no matter how oft, - Cold and rigid, without the least tremor of breath, - How could you claim _Ethel_, O pitiless death! - - Her hands! No, ’twill kill me to think how they wove - Through my daily existence a tissue of love. - Each finger’s a print upon memory’s page, - That will brighten, thank God! and not dim with my age. - - Sick or well, they were ready at every request - To amuse us: sweet hands! they deserve a sweet rest. - Their last little trick was to wipe “Bopeep’s” eye, - Their last little gesture, to wave us good-bye. - - Little feet! little feet, how dark the heart’s gloom, - Where your patter is hushed in that desolate room! - For oh! ’twas a sight sweet beyond all compare, - To see little “Frisky” rock back in her chair. - - * * * * * - - O Father! have mercy, and grant me thy grace - To see, through this frown, the smile on thy face; - To feel that this sorrow is sent for the best, - And to learn from my darling a lesson of rest. - - _February 16th, 1875._ - - - - -LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF AN UNKNOWN FRIEND - - - We’ve never met; I’ve never pressed your hand, - Nor caught the light of Friendship in your eyes; - Yet bound by grief, between two graves we stand, - And mingle tears, and hear each other’s sighs. - - The same dark wings have taken from each hearth - The brightest jewel of the circle there, - And poor Faith stumbles at the mound of earth, - And feebly yields her place to wan Despair. - - The same dear Christ that took our little one, - And laid her precious head upon His breast, - In tender love called home your darling son - To enter early his eternal rest. - - But who could stand beside the open tomb, - And hear the clods fall on the coffin lid, - And see deep underneath the earthen gloom, - The dearest love of life forever hid? - - Could we not hear the grave’s red lips proclaim, - “I am the Resurrection and the Life,” - And realize that Death in Jesus’ name - Is only rest from labor, pain, and strife? - - ’Tis hard to feel assured our sainted dead - Are happy _there_, as we could make them here; - We love them so we give them up with dread, - And lay them in Christ’s arms with doubt and fear. - - Oh! for a faith that sees in all God sends - The kindness of a father to his son; - That prays, in every trial--if it ends - In joy or grief, “Thy will, O Lord, be done.” - - Beneath the same dark shadow let us kneel, - And lift our broken hearts in prayer to God - That while He chastens, He will help us feel - The wisdom of His purpose in the rod. - - We are not strangers now; from heart to heart - The electric chords of mutual sorrow thrill. - And clasping hands across the miles apart, - We stand resolved, to “suffer and be still.” - - - - - OUT IN THE RAIN - - - The night is dark and cold, a beating rain - Falls ceaselessly upon the dripping roof; - The dismal wind, with now a fierce, wild shriek, - And now a hollow moan, as if in pain, - Circles the eaves, and bends the tortured trees that wring - Their long, bear hands in the bleak blast. - Within - Our chamber all is bright and warm. The fire - Burns with a ruddy blaze. The shaded lamp - Softens the pictures on the wall, and glows - Upon the flowers in the carpet, till they seem - All fresh and fragrant. Stretched upon the rug, - His collar gleaming in the fire-light, little Pip - Is sleeping on, defiant of the storm without. - The very furniture enjoys the warmth, - And from its sides reflects the cheerful light. - Up in its painted cage, the little bird, - His yellow head beneath his soft, warm wing, - Is hiding. Oh! my God, out in the storm - _Our little yellow head_ is beaten by the rain. - So lonely looks that precious little face - Up at the cold, dark coffin’s lid above, - In the bleak graveyard’s solitude! - Oh! Ethel darling, do you feel afraid? - Or is Christ with you in your little grave? - When last we gazed upon those lovely eyes - They looked so tranquil, in their last repose, - We knew that Christ’s own tender hand had sealed - Their lids with His eternal peace. - Oh! darling, are you happy up in heaven? - And do the angels part that golden hair - As tenderly as we? O Saviour dear, - Thou knowest childhood’s tenderness. Amid - The care of countless worlds, sometimes descend - From thine almighty throne of power, and find - That little yellow head, and lay it on thy breast, - And smooth her brow with thine own pierced hand; - She’ll kiss the wound and try to make it well. - And tell her how we love her memory here; - And let her sometimes see us, that she may - Remember us. O Jesus, we can trust - Her to thy care; and when we lay us down - To rest, beside that lonely, little grave, - Oh! let her meet us with her harp. - God help us both to make that meeting sure! - - - - - THE LILY AND THE DEW-DROP - - - Deep in a cell of darkest green, - Rayless and murky with unbroken gloom, - With downcast head and shrinking, modest mien, - A lily of the valley shed her rare perfume, - Breathed softly, as a sea shell’s murmur, from her bloom - An odor so exquisite, none can tell, - If ’tis an odor or a whispered sigh - That like the dying echoes of a bell - Falls on the raptured sense so dreamily, - The soul swoons in the tearful clasp of memory. - - So when an old man hears a harvest song - He used to sing, or smells the new-mown hay, - A host of saddened recollections throng - The dusty chambers of his heart, and play - Upon the cobwebs there a soft Æolian lay. - - (_Unfinished._) - - - - - LINES, - - WRITTEN AFTER HAVING A HEMORRHAGE FROM THE LUNGS - -Written a short time before his death and handed to his wife with the -request, “Do not open this until I am well, or until my death.” - - - Life bloomed for me as if my path thro’ Eden - Led its flowery way. Success had crowned - In many ways my efforts. No dark strife - With adverse Fate its portent shadows cast - Across the calm blue scope of heaven. - And though - Pride often chafed at plain commercial life, - It was but transient, for ambitious Hope - Kept ever in my view Fame’s gilded dome, - Upon whose highest pinnacle I chose my niche, - For vain conceit had whispered in my ear - That I had Genius to encharm the world, - And I looked forward to the loud applause - Of nations as a simple thing of time. - Of death I thought but as a fright for those - Who have no destiny but dying. Mine - Would come in age, but as a pallid seal - To Honor gained, and Life’s long labors done. - Yet I had felt the breath of Asrael’s wing - When from my youthful head he took my father’s hand, - And from my manhood’s arms my only child, - And down the past a little mound of earth, - Tombed with the darkest sorrow of our hearts, - Still stands, though veiling in the folds of time. - Of heaven I thought but as a distant home, - A place of sweetest rest that I would gain, - When weary of the burden of the world. - Thus gay of thought and bright of hope, I moved - Amid the flowers of my way. - At once, - With scarce a rustle in the rose leaves, came - A shadowy form, and standing silently - Before my pathway, breathed a whispered sigh, - As if it loathed its office to perform; - Then laid Consumption’s ghastly banner on my breast, - Its pale folds crossed with fatal red. - The sky - Grew dark, the rose leaves withered, as the form - Withdrew, still silently; while I, alone - Upon the roadside, kneeled to pray for light. - The stunned surprise of sudden shattered hopes, - The faith of self-appointed destiny, - Still turned my eyes toward the Temple Fame. - Across its gilded dome a spotless cloud - Had drifted, hiding it from view, but lo! - The cloud, unfolding snowy depths, disclosed - The glories of that “House not made with hands,” - And bending from it, so full of tenderness, - I could discern the loved ones “gone before.” - And over all I recognized the Form - Whose brow endured Gabbatha’s shameful crown, - Whose woe distilled itself in trickling blood, - By Cedron’s murmuring wave. - As tenderly - As ever mother touched her babe, He bore - Within His arms a little angel form, - With golden hair and blue expressive eyes, - One dimpled hand lay on His willing cheek, - While He bent down to meet the sweet caress, - The other, with that well-remembered look - She kissed, and threw the kiss to me. - Then down - I bowed my face, and longed to know mine end. - ’Twere very sweet to leave all toil and care - And join the blessed ones beyond the tide; - And still ’twere sweet beyond compare to wait - Till eventide with loved ones here, and share - Their weal or woe. - Then came a flute-like voice - That thrilled the solemn air: - “Pursue thy way, - Yet humbly walk and watch, and if I come - At midnight, or at noon, be ready.” - Thus - I wish to live, life’s aims subserved to God; - And each continued day and hour regard - As special gifts to be improved for Him; - To wear the girdle of the world about my loins - So loosely that a moment will suffice - To break the clasp, and lay it down. - - - THE END - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Angel in the Cloud, by Edwin W. 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Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +Project Gutenberg's The Angel in the Cloud, by Edwin W. (Wiley) Fuller + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license + + +Title: The Angel in the Cloud + +Author: Edwin W. (Wiley) Fuller + +Release Date: July 14, 2018 [EBook #57504] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANGEL IN THE CLOUD *** + + + + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images available at The Internet Archive) + + + + + + + + + + + THE ANGEL + IN THE CLOUD + + BY + + EDWIN W. FULLER + + PRIVATELY PRINTED + MCMVII + + + + + _Copyright, 1907 + Sumner Fuller Parham_ + + + + + TO THE + + HALLOWED MEMORY OF MY FATHER, + + WHO, + + EVEN WHILE I WAS GAZING UPON THE GOLDEN CITY + + PASSED WITHIN ITS WALLS, + + THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, + + WITH TEARS. + + + + +PREFACE + + +To those who may favor these pages with perusal, I make this earnest +request: that, if they commence, they will read all. Knowing that the +best mode of dealing with doubts is to state and refute, successively, I +regret that the plan of the present work forces a separation of the +statement and refutation. To read one without the other were to defeat +the object in view; hence my request. + +Many of the subjects of thought are worn smooth with the touch of ages, +so that hope for originality is as slender as the bridge of Al Sirat; +but in the bulrush ark of self-confidence, pitched with Faith, I commit +my first-born to the Nile of public opinion; whether to perish by +crocodile critics, or bask in the palace of favor, the Future, alone, +must determine. May Pharaoh’s daughter find it! + + E. W. F. + +LOUISBURG, Jan. 17th, 1871. + + + + +A NOTE + + +_First published more than thirty-five years ago, in the lifetime of the +poet, THE ANGEL IN THE CLOUD has long since passed not only out of print +but out of the memory of most living men. Of the copies of the original +edition, only few are known to exist. Upon his surviving family is +imposed the obligation, and to them comes the privilege, of rescuing +from the realm of forgotten things these evidences of a graceful and +genuine poetic gift in one whose memory they revere and whose genius +they are unwilling to have die. It is therefore with the sense of +performing a grateful duty that they have caused to be printed this new +edition of Edwin Fuller’s poems, in the hope and belief that others, +like themselves, will value it both as friends of the gentle poet and as +disinterested lovers of good literature._ + +August, 1907. + + + + + THE ANGEL IN THE CLOUD + + + ’Twas noon in August, and the sultry heat + Had driven me from sunny balcony + Into the shaded hall, where spacious doors + Stood open wide, and lofty windows held + Their sashes up, to woo the breeze, in vain. + The filmy lace that curtained them was still, + And every silken tassel hung a-plumb. + The maps and unframed pictures o’er the wall + Gave not a rustle; only now and then + Was heard the jingling sound of melting ice, + Deep in a massive urn, whose silver sides + With trickling dewbeads ran. The little birds, + Up in their cages, perched with open beaks, + And throbbing throats, upon the swaying rings, + Or plashed the tepid water in their cups + With eager breast. My favorite pointer lay, + With lolling tongue, and rapid panting sides, + Beside my chair, upon the matted floor. + All things spoke heat, oppressive heat intense, + Save swallows twittering up the chimney-flue, + Whose hollow flutterings sounded cool alone. + To find relief I seized my hat and book, + And fled into the park. Along a path + Of smoothest gravel, oval, curving white, + Between two rows of closely shaven hedge, + I passed towards a latticed summer-house; + A fairy bower, built in Eastern style, + With spires, and balls, and fancy trellis-work, + O’er which was spread the jasmine’s leafy net, + To snare the straying winds. Within I fell + Upon a seat of woven cane, and fanned + My streaming face in vain. The very winds + Seemed to have fled, and left alone the heat + To rise from parchèd lawn and scorching fields, + Like trembling incense to the blazing god. + The leaves upon the wan and yellow trees + Hung motionless, as if of rigid steel; + And e’en the feath’ry pendula of spray, + With faintest oscillation, dared not wave. + The withered flowers shed a hot perfume, + That sickened with its fragrance; and the bees + Worked lazily, as if they longed to kick + The yellow burdens from their patient thighs, + And rest beneath the ivy parasols. + The butterflies refrained from aimless flight, + And poised on blooms with gaudy, gasping wings. + The fountain scarcely raised its languid jet + An inch above its tube; the basin deigned + A feeble ripple for its tinkling fall, + And rolled the little waves with noiseless beat + Against the marble side. The bright-scaled fish + All huddled ’neath the jutting ledge’s shade, + Where, burnished like their magnet toy types, + They rose and fell as if inanimate; + Or, with a restless stroke of tinted fin, + Turned in their places pettishly around; + While, with each move, the tiny whirlpools spun + Like crystal dimples on the water’s face. + The sculptured lions crouched upon the edge, + With gaping jaws, and stony, fixèd eyes, + That ever on the pool glared thirstily. + Deep in the park, beneath the trees, were grouped + The deer, their noses lowered to the earth, + To snuff a cooler air; their slender feet + Impatient stamping at the teasing flies; + While o’er their heads the branching antlers spread, + A mocking skeleton of shade! A fawn, + Proud of his dappled coat, played here and there, + Regardless of repose; the silver bell, + That tinkled from a band of broidered silk, + Proclaiming him a petted favorite. + Save him alone, all things in view sought rest, + And wearied Nature seemed to yield the strife, + And smold’ring wait her speedy sacrifice. + + The heat grew hotter as I watched its work, + And with its fervor overcome, I rose, + And through the grounds, towards an orchard bent + My faltering steps in full despair of ease. + Down through the lengthened rows of laden trees, + Whose golden-freighted boughs o’erlapped the way, + I hurried till I reached the last confines. + Here stood a gnarléd veteran, now too old + To bear much fruit, but weaving with its leaves + So dense a shade, the smallest fleck of sun + Could not creep through. Beneath it spread a couch + Of velvet moss, fit for the slumbers of a king. + Here prone I fell, at last amid a scene + That promised refuge from the glaring heat. + Beyond me stretched the orchard’s canopy + Of thick, rank foliage, almost drooping down + Upon the green plush carpet underneath. + Close at my feet a crystal spring burst forth, + And rolled its gurgling waters down the glade + Now spreading in a rilling silver sheet + O’er some broad rock, then gath’ring at its base + Into a foamy pool that churned the sand, + And mingling sparks of shining isinglass, + It danced away o’er gleamy, pebbly bed, + Where, midst the grassy nooks and fibrous roots, + The darting minnows played at hide and seek, + Oft fluttering upwards, to the top, to spit + A tiny bubble out, or slyly snap + Th’ unwary little insect hov’ring near; + Till, by its tributes widened to a brook, + It poured its limpid waters undefiled + In to the river’s dun and dirty waves,-- + A type of childhood’s guileless purity, + That mingling with the sordid world is lost. + + Far in the distance, lofty mountains loomed, + Their blue sides trembling in the sultry haze. + From me to them spread varicultured fields, + That formed a patchwork landscape, which deserved + The pencil of a Rembrandt and his skill; + The hardy yellow stubble smoothly shaved, + With boldness lying ’neath the scorching sun; + The suffering corn, with tasselled heads all bowed, + And twisted arms appealing, raised to Heaven; + The meadows faded by the constant blaze; + The cattle lying in the hedge’s shade; + Across the landscape drawn a glitt’ring band, + Where winds the river, like a giant snake, + The ripples flashing like his polished scales. + Above the scene a lonely vulture wheeled, + Turning with every curve from side to side, + As if the fierce rays broiled his dusky wings; + And circling onwards, dwindled to a speck, + And in the distance vanished out of sight! + Complete repose was stamped on everything, + Save where a tireless ant tugged at a crumb, + To drag it o’er th’ impeding spires of moss; + And one poor robin, with her breast all pale + And feather-scarce, hopped wearily along + The streamlet’s edge, with plaintive clock-like chirp, + And searching, found and bore the curling worm, + Up to the yellow-throated brood o’erhead. + Behind the mountains reared the copper clouds + Of summer skies, that whitened as they rose, + Till bleached to snow, they drifted dreamily, + Like gleaming icebergs, through the blue sublime. + And as they, one by one, sailed far away, + Methought they were as ships from Earth to Heaven, + Thus slowly floating to the Eternal Port. + The Thunder’s muttered growl my reverie broke, + And looking toward the West, I saw a storm, + With gloomy wrath, had thrown its dark-blue line + Of breastworks, quiv’ring with each grand discharge + Of its own ordnance, o’er th’ horizon’s verge. + Some time it stood to gloat upon its prey, + Then, girding up its strength, began its march. + Extending far its black gigantic arms, + It grimly clambered up the tranquil sky; + Till, half-way up the arch, its shaggy brows + Scowled down in rage upon the frightened earth; + While through its wind-cleft portals sped the darts, + That brightly hurtled through the sultry air. + And down the mountain-sides the shadow crept, + A dark veil spreading over field and wood, + Thus adding gloom to Nature’s awful hush. + The fleecy racks had fled far to the East, + Where sporting safely in the gilding light, + They mocked the angry monster’s cumbrous speed. + + Then, while I marked its progress, came a train, + Of dark and doubting thoughts into my mind, + And bitterly thus my reflections ran: + Strange is the Providence that rules the world, + That sets the Medean course of Nature’s laws; + Sometimes adapting law to circumstance, + But oftener making law fulfilled a curse. + Yon brewing storm in verdant summer comes, + When vegetation spreads its foliage sails, + That, like a full-rigged ship’s, are easier torn; + Why comes it not in winter, when the trees, + With canvas reefed by Autumn’s furling frosts, + Could toss in nude defiance to the blast? + The murd’rous wind precedes the gentle shower + And ere the suffering grain has quenched its thirst, + It bows the heavy head, alone of worth, + And from the ripening stalk wrings out the life, + While gayly nod the heads of chaff unharmed. + The rank miasma floats in summer-time, + When man must brave its poisoned breath or starve; + It hovers sickliest over richest fields + While over sterile lands the air is pure; + The tallest oak is by the lightning riven, + The hateful bramble on the ground is spared; + The crop man needs demands his constant work, + The weeds alone spring forth without the plow; + The sweetest flowers wear the sharpest thorns, + The deadliest reptiles lurk in fairest paths! + Wherever Nature shows her brightest smile, + ’Tis but a mask to hide her darkest frown. + The tropics seem an Eden of luscious fruits + And flowers, and groves of loveliest birds, and lakes + That mirror their gay plumage flitting o’er; + Where man may live in luxury of thought, + Without the crime of schemes, or curse of toil-- + The tropics seem a Hell, when all with life + Are stifled with the foul sirocco’s breath; + When from the green-robed mountain’s volcan top, + A fire-fountain spouts its blazing jet + Far up against the starry dome of Heaven; + Returning in its vast umbrella shape, + Leaps in red cataracts adown the slope, + Shaves clean the mountain of its emerald hair, + And leaves it bald with ashes on its head. + Below, the valley is a crimson sea, + Whose glowing billows break to white-hot foam; + And as they surge amid the towering trees, + They, tottering, bow forever to the waves; + The leaves and branches, crackling into flame, + Leave only clotted cinders floating there; + The darting birds, their gaudy plumage singed, + Fall fluttering in, with little puffs of smoke. + The fleeing beasts are lapped in, bellowing, + And charred to coal, drift idly with the tide. + The red flood, breaking through the vale, rolls on + Its devious way towards the sea; the glare + Illuminating far its winding track, + As if a devil flew with flaming torch, + Or when an earthquake gapes its black-lined jaws, + And, growling, gulps a city’s busy throng + Into its greedy bowels. Or the sea bursts forth + Its bands of rock, and laughing at “Thus far!” + Rolls wildly over peopled towns, and homes + In fancied safety; playing fearful pranks, + O’er which to chuckle in its briny bed; + Jeering the stones because they cannot swim, + And crushing like a shell all work of wood; + Docking the laden ships upon the hills, + And tossing lighter craft about like weeds; + Till, wearied with the spoiling, sinks to rest. + + Thus Nature to herself is but half kind, + But over man holds fullest tyranny; + And man, a creature who cannot prevent + His own existence! Why not happy made? + For surely ’twere as easy to create + Man in a state of happiness and good, + And keep him there, as to create at all. + If misery’s not deserved before his birth, + Then misery must from purest malice flow; + Yet malice none assign to Providence. + But some may say: Were man thus happy made, + He would not be a person, but a thing, + And lose the very seed of happiness, + The consciousness of merit. Grant ’tis true! + Then why does merit rarely meet reward? + And why does there appear a tendency, + Throughout the polity divine, to mark + With disapproval all the good in man, + And bless the evil? Through the entire world + Is felt this conflict: some strange power within + Exciting us to good, while all events + Proclaim its folly. Throughout Nature’s laws, + Through man in every station, up to God, + This fatal contradiction glares. The storm, + With ruthless breath, annihilates the cot + That, frail and humble, shields the widow’s head; + And while she reads within the use-worn Book + That none who trusts shall e’er be desolate, + The falling timbers crush the promise out, + And she is dead beneath her ruined home! + The prostrate cottage passed, the very wind + Now howls a rough but fawning lullaby + Around the marble walls, and lofty dome, + That shelter pride and heartless arrogance. + + And when the Boaz Winter throws his skirt + Of purest white across the lap of Earth, + And decks her bare arborial hair with gems, + Whose feeblest flash would pale the Koh-i-noor, + The rich, alone, find beauty in the scene, + And, clad in thankless comfort, brave the cold. + The gliding steels flash through the feathery drifts, + The jingling bells proclaiming happiness; + Yet ’neath the furry robe the oath is heard, + And boisterous laughter at the ribald jest. + The coldest hearts beat ’neath the warmest clothes; + And often all the blessings wealth can give, + Are heaped on one, whose daily life reviles + The very name of Him who doth bestow. + While in a freezing garret, o’er the coals + That, bluely flickering with the feeble flame, + Seem cold themselves, a trusting Christian bends; + Her faith all mocked by cruel circumstance. + The cold, bare walls, the chilling air-swept floor; + Some broken stools, a mattress stuffed with straw, + Upholstering the apartment. Through the sash, + The wind, with jaggèd lips of broken glass, + Shrieks in its freezing spite. A cold-blued babe, + With face too thin to hold a dimple’s print, + With famished gums tugs at the arid breast, + Thrusting its bare, splotched arms, in eagerness, + From out the poor white blanket’s ravelled edge. + Beside the mother sits a little boy, + With one red frost-cracked hand spread out, in vain, + To warm above the faintly-burning coals; + The other pressing hardly ’gainst his teeth + A stale and tasteless loaf of smallest size, + Which lifting often to the mother’s view, + He offers part; she only shakes her head, + And sadly smiles upon the gaunt young face. + Yet in her basket, on a pile of work, + An open Bible lies with outstretched leaves, + Whose verses speak in keenest irony: + “Do good,” and “verily thou shalt be fed.” + And so through all the world, the righteous poor, + The wicked rich. Deceit, and fraud, and craft + Reap large rewards, while pure integrity + Must gnaw the bone of faith with here and there + A speck of flesh called consciousness of right, + To reach the marrow in another world. + But man within himself’s the greatest paradox; + “A little animal,” as Voltaire says, + And yet a greater wonder than the sun, + Or spangled firmament. That little one + Can weigh and measure all the wheeling worlds, + But finds within his “five feet” home, a Sphinx + Whose riddle he can never solve. + “Thyself,” + The oracles of old bade men to know, + As if to mock their very impotence; + And man, to know himself, for centuries + Has toiled and studied deep, in vain.-- + Not man in flesh, for blest Hippocrates + Bright trimmed his lamp, and passed it down the line, + And each disciple adding of his oil, + It blazes now above the ghastly corpse, + Till every fibre, every thread-like vein, + Is known familiar as a city’s streets; + The little muscle twitching back the lip, + Rejoicing in a name that spans the page. + But man in mind, that is not seen nor felt, + But only knows he is, through consciousness. + He sees an outside world, with all its throng + Of busy people who care not for him, + And only few that know he does exist; + And yet he feels the independent world + Is but effect produced upon himself, + The Universe is packed within his mind, + His mind within its little house of clay. + What is that mind? Has it a formal shape? + And has it substance, color, weight, or force? + What are the chains that bind it to the flesh? + That never break except in death, though oft + The faculties are sent far out through space? + Where is it placed, in head, or hands, or feet? + And can it have existence without place? + And if a place, it must extension have, + And if extended, it is matter proven. + Poor man! he has but mind to view mind with, + And might as well attempt to see the eye + Without a mirror! True, faint consciousness + Holds up a little glass, wherein he sees + A few vague facts that cannot satisfy. + For these, and their attendant laws, have fought + The mental champions of the world till now + That each may deck them in his livery, + And claim them as his own discovery. + + Hedged in, man does not know that he is paled, + And struggles fiercely ’gainst the boundaries, + And strives to get a glimpse of those far realms + Of thought sublime, where his short wings would sink + With helpless fluttering, through the vast profound. + Upon the coals of curiosity, + A writhing worm, he’s laid; and twists and turns, + To find, in vain, the healing salve of Truth. + + But grant that mind exists in fullest play: + How does it work and what its modes of thought? + Here consciousness may act, and hold to view + A dim outline of powers, contraposed. + In such a conflict, every one may seize + The doctrine suits him best. Hence different creeds-- + Desire battling reason, reason will, + And will the weathercock of motive’s wind; + Motive the cringing slave of circumstance. + And here Charybdis rises; no control + Has man o’er circumstance, but circumstance + Begets the motive governing the will; + Then how can man be free? Yet some may say, + Man can obey the motive, or can not. + He can, but only when a stronger rules. + That we without a motive never act, + I do declare, though in the face of Reid. + That that is strongest which impels, a child + Might know, although Jouffroy exclaims, + “You’re reasoning in a circle.” Let us place + An iron fragment ’twixt two magnet-bars, + What one attracts is thereby stronger proved. + Or it may be the really weaker one, + But yet, because of nearness to the steel, + Possess a relatively greater force. + And so of motives, howe’er trivial they, + The one that moves is strongest to the mind. + To illustrate: Suppose I pare a peach; + A friend near by me banteringly asserts + That I can not refrain from eating it. + Two motives now arise--the appetite, + And the desire to prove my self-control. + I hesitate awhile, then laughing say, + “I would not give the peach to prove you wrong.” + But as my teeth press on it, pride springs up, + And bids me show that I am not the slave + Of appetite, and far away I hurl + The tinted, fragrant sphere. + Was not each thought + Spontaneous? Could I control their rise? + How perfectly absurd to talk of choice + Between two motives offered to the mind! + As if the motive was a horse we’d choose + To pull our minds about. There is no choice + Until the motive makes it; then we choose, + Not ’tween the motives, but the acts. + If, then, + The spring of action is the motive’s power, + The motive being far beyond our sway, + Where is our freedom? But a fabled myth! + And man but differs from a star in this,-- + The laws of stars are fixed and definite, + And every movement there can be foretold; + Of man, no deed can be foreseen till done. + At most we can but form a general guess + How he will act, at such a time and place. + Even if we knew the motives that would rise, + We could not prophesy unless we knew + Our subject’s frame of mind; for differently, + On different minds, same motives often act. + Hence, we can tell the conduct of a friend + More surely than a stranger’s, since we know, + By long acquaintance, how his motives work. + But should new motives rise, we cannot tell + Until experience gives us data new. + Thus we will ride beside a friend alone, + And show to him our money without fear, + Because we know the motives--love for us, + Honor, and horror of disgraceful crime-- + Are stronger with him than cupidity. + But with a stranger we would feel unsafe; + Nor would we trust our friend, were we alone + Upon an island, wrecked, and without food, + And saw his eye with hunger glare, and heard + The famished motive whispering to him, “Kill!” + If he were free, would we feel slightest fear? + For all his soul would shudder from the deed, + And never motive could impel such crime. + + Upon this principal all law is made; + For were man free he could not be controlled, + And all compliance would be his caprice. + But since he is the tyrant-motive’s slave, + The law to govern motive only seeks + And builds its sanction on the base of pain, + As motive strongest in the human heart. + It only falls below perfection’s height, + Because there are exceptions to the rule; + When hate and passion, lust and greed of gold, + Prove stronger than the fear of distant pain. + And could the law know fully every heart, + And vary sanction, there would be no crime. + + But law itself, and the obeying world, + Are proofs against the grosser form of Fate: + That all is preordained, nor can be changed. + All human life is vacillating life; + We make our plans each day, then alter them. + We form resolves one hour that break the next, + And no one dares assert that he will act, + Upon the morrow, in a certain way; + But cries, it all depends on circumstance. + And this is strange, that while we cannot change + Our lives one tittle by our own free will, + We help, each day, to change our neighbor’s course; + And he assists the motives changing ours. + For all relations to our fellow-men, + Are powers that form our lives, in spite of us. + But we may change our motives, often do, + By changing place, or circumstance of life, + By hearing, reading, or reflective thought; + Yet are these very things from motives done, + And motives mocking all our vain commands. + One motive made the object of an act, + Another rises subject of the act; + And to the final motive we can never reach. + + The world’s a self-adjusting, vast machine, + Whose human comparts cannot guide themselves; + And each is but a puppet to the whole, + Yet adds its mite towards its government; + Here, in this motive circle, lies all Fate. + Our fellow-men with motives furnish us, + While we contribute to their motive fund. + The real power, hidden deep within, + Escapes the eye of careless consciousness; + Who proudly tells us we are action’s cause. + Upon this error men, mistaken, raise + The edifice of law in all its forms; + That yet performs its varied functions well, + Because it offers motives that restrain, + Till stronger overcome, and crime ensues. + The motive gibbet lifts its warning arms; + The pillory gapes its scolloped lips for necks; + The lash grows stiff with blood and shreds of flesh; + The treadmill yields beneath the wearied feet; + And Sabbath after Sabbath preachers tell + Of judgment, and of awful Hell, and Heaven; + All these, to stronger make, than lust of sin. + And yet, to lead my reasoning to its end, + I find a chaos of absurdity. + If I am by an unruled motive driven, + Why act at all? Why passive not recline + Upon the lap of destiny, and wait her arms? + Why struggle to acquire means of life, + When Fate must fill our mouths or let us die? + Why go not naked forth into the world, + And trust to Fate for clothes? Why spring aside + From falling weight, or flee a burning house, + Or fight with instinct strength the clasp of waves? + Because we cannot help it; every act + Behind it has a motive, whose command + We, willing or unwilling, must obey. + + Law governs motives, motives create law; + Between the reflex action man is placed, + The helpless shuttlecock of unjust Fate! + Now passive driven to commit a crime, + Then by the driver laid upon the rack; + A Zeno’s slave, compelled by Fate to steal, + And then compelled by Fate to bear the lash! + + What gross injustice is the rule of life! + A sentient being made without a will, + And placed a cat’s-paw in the hands of Fate, + Who rakes the moral embers for a sin, + That, found, must burn the helpless one alone. + All right and wrong, and whate’er makes man man, + Are gone, and language is half obsolete; + No need of words to tell of moral worth + Existing not, nor e’en conceivable; + No words of blame or commendation, given + According to the intention of a deed; + No words of cheer or comfort, to incite, + For man must act without our useless tongues; + No words of prayer, if Fate supplies our wants; + No words of prayer, if Fate locks up her store; + No words of love, for fondest love were loathed + If fanned by Fate to flame. No words of hate, + For all forgive a wrong when helpless done; + The buds that bloom upon the desert heart + Lose all their sweetness when they’re forced to grow; + All pleasure’s marred because it is not earned, + And pain more painful since ’tis undeserved. + + Man falling from his high estate, becomes + A brute with keener sensibilities; + Endowed with mind, upon whose plastic face + Fate writes its batch of lies; poor man believes, + And prates of moral agency, and cants + Of good _he_ does, and evil that _he_ shuns. + With blind content, he rests in false belief, + And happy thus escapes the mental rack-- + The consciousness of what he really is. + + And yet why false belief? The world believes, + And acting, moves in general harmony; + Could harmony from such an error flow? + Would all believe, would not some one + Have doubted by his works as well as faith? + The veriest skeptic walks the earth to-day, + As if he held the seal of freest will, + And shapes its course, and judges all mankind + By freedom’s rule. + Then may not that be true + Which most believe, and those who doubt profess + In every act; as that which few believe + And to which none conform? + Two paths I see, + One marked Free-Will, the other Fate. The first, + Extending far as human thought can reach, + Through lovely meads with sweetest flowers, and fruits + Of actions clearly shown as right and wrong, + Because of choice ’twixt the two; of laws + With sanction suiting agents who are free; + Of courts acquitting the insane of crime, + Of crime made crime, alone, when done as crime, + Of judgment passed by public sentiment + On action in the ratio of liberty. + Delightful view; but seek an entrance there-- + The towering bars of unruled motive stand + Before the path, and none can overleap. + + The field of Fate lies open; nothing bars + Our progress there. A thousand different ways + The path diverges. Every by-path leads + To some foul pit or bottomless abyss. + Along each side are strewed the whitening bones + Of venturous pilgrims, lost amid its snares, + Some broken on the rocks of gross decree, + Who hold an unchanged destiny from birth; + Who will not take a medicine if sick, + Who cant of “To be, will be,” and the time + Unalterably set to each man’s life. + Some stranded on the finer form of Fate, + Who say it works by means. Hence they believe + In using all preventives to disease, + In going boating in a rubber belt, + In placing Franklin rods upon a house, + In preaching, and in praying men repent. + These, when one dies, cry out, “It was his time.” + Or if he should recover, “It was not.” + Their fate is always ex post facto fate, + And knowing not the future, they abide + The issue of events, and then confirm + Their dogged dogmas. + Still another class, + Though fewer far in numbers, perish here. + These are the sophists; men who deeply dive + Beneath the surface of effect, and trace + Our actions to their source. They find that man, + Made in the glorious image of his God, + Is not an independent cause, but works + From motive causes out of his control. + They find that every mental act must flow + From outside source, then fearlessly ascend + The chain of being to a height divine, + And dare to fetter the Eternal mind, + And throw their bonds around Omnipotence. + As well a spider in an eagle’s nest + Might, from his hidden web among the twigs, + Attempt to throw his little gluey thread + Around the mottled wing, whose muscled strength + Beats hurried vacuums in the ocean’s spray, + Or circling upward, parts the thunder-cloud, + And bursts above; and shaking off the mists, + With rigid feathers bright as burnished steel, + Floats proudly through the tranquil air. + Which realm + Shall now be mine, Free-Will or Fate? The one + Stands open wide, but all in ruin ends; + The other, fair if once within the pale; + But how to scale the barriers none can tell. + Bah! all is doubt. I’ll leave the mystic paths + Where, on each side, are ranged the phantom shapes + Of disputants, alive and dead, who fight, + With foolish zeal, o’er myths intangible; + When each one cries “Eureka!” for his creed. + That scarcely lives a day, then yields its place. + A Roman ’gainst a Roman, Greek to Greek, + A zealous Omar with an Ali paired; + A saintly Pharisee in hot dispute + With Sadducees. Along th’ illustrious rows + Of lesser lights, who advocate the creeds + Of their respective masters, we descend + To later days and see Titanic minds + Exert their giant strength to reach the truth, + And, baffled, fall. Locke, ever elsewhere clear, + Here mystified Spinoza’s dizzy wing + O’erweighted by his strange “imperium;” + Hobbes, with his new intrinsic liberty; + And Belsham’s quaint reduction too absurd; + “Sufficient reason,” reared in Leibnitz’s strength; + Reid, Collins, Edwards, Tappan, Priestley, Clarke, + All push each other from the door of Truth. + + None ever have, nor ever will, on earth, + Reach truth of theory concerning Fate. + It stands as whole from every touch of man + As ocean’s broad blue scroll, whose rubber waves + Erase the furrows of the plowing keels. + + Then, careless whether man be king or slave, + I’ll take his actions, whether free or not, + And trace them to their sources. Deep the dive, + But, throwing off the buoys of Charity + And Faith, and all the prejudice of life, + I grasp the lead of Doubt, and downward sink + Into the cesspool of the human heart, + To find the fount, that to the surface casts + A thousand bubbles of such varied hues: + The pale white bubble of hypocrisy, + The murky bubble of revenge and hate, + The frail gilt bubble of ambition’s hope, + The rainbow bubble of sweet love in youth, + The dull slime bubble of a sensual lust, + The crystal bubble of true charity! + Instead of analyzing every fact + Of moral nature, searching for its source, + I’ll name a source most probable, and try + The facts upon it; if they fit, confirm, + If not, reject. With Hobbes and Paley then + I join; and here avow that all mankind + Have but one source of action--Love of self-- + Yet not self-love as understands the world, + For that’s a name for error shown by few; + But natural instinct that impels all men + To give self pleasure, and to save it pain; + For pain and pleasure are Life’s only modes-- + No neutral state--we suffer, or enjoy; + And every action’s linked with one of these. + We cannot act without a consciousness, + A consciousness of pleasure or of pain, + The very automatic workings of our frames + Are pleasures, unmarked from their constancy; + But if impeded, they produce a pain. + This instinct, teaching us to pleasure seek, + And pain avoid, none ever disobey; + For be their conduct what it may, a crime + Or virtue, greed or pure benevolence, + To find the greatest pleasure is their aim. + Nay, start not, critic, but attend the proofs. + A man exists within himself alone, + Himself, or he would lose identity. + To him the world exists but by effects + Upon himself. His actions toward it then + Bear reference to himself. He cannot act + Without affecting self. His nature’s law + Demands that self be dealt with pleasantly. + + There is no pain or pleasure in the world, + But as he feels th’ reality in self, + Or fancies it by signs in other men. + This fancied pain is never _real_ pain, + But yields a _real_ reflex. Others’ pain + Is never pain to us, unless we know + It does exist. Within a hundred yards + A neighbor dies, in agony intense, + And yet we feel no slightest trace of pain, + Unless informed thereof. ’Tis only when we know, + And therefore are affected, that we feel. + + The modes of pain and pleasure are then two, + A real and a fancied one. The first acute, + In ratio of our sensibilities; + The last in ratio of our image-power. + These gifts in different men unequal are, + And hence life’s varied phases. One may deem + A real pain far greater than a pain + In fancy formed, from others’ sufferings; + He eats alone, and drives the starving off. + Another’s fancy paints more vividly, + And he endures keen hunger to supply + The poor with food. And so of pleasure too,-- + And this moves all to shun the greatest pain, + And find the greatest pleasure. + Different minds, + And each at different times of life, possess + A different standard of this highest good. + The swaddled infant wails for its own food, + Because its highest pleasure is alone in sense; + The child will from its playmate hide a cake + Until it learns that praise for sharing it + Gives greater pleasure than the sweetened taste; + One boy at school proves insubordinate, + His schoolmates’ praise he deems his highest good; + Another studies well, because he values more + A parent’s smile. The murderer with his knife, + The maiden praying in her purity, + The miser dying over hoards of gold, + The widow casting thither her two mites, + A white-veil bending o’er the dying couch, + A stained beauty floating through the waltz, + The preacher’s zeal, the gambler’s eager zest; + All have one motive, greatest good to self! + + The tender stop their ears, and cry aloud: + “What! do you dare assert the gambler seeks + With hellish zeal the faintest shade of good? + That he is holy as the Man of God?” + By no means, yet he seeks his good the same. + Not good as you’ve been taught to apprehend, + But good, the greatest to his frame of mind. + Do not exclaim that good is always good, + And never differs from itself. Anon + We’ll speak of abstract truths, if such there be + That good and pleasure are synonymous + At times of action, is most surely plain; + For pleasure’s but the consciousness of good, + Or satisfaction of our tendencies. + If all the gambler’s soul is bent on gain, + Then at the moment gain is greatest good; + But should you reason with him, and explain + Another life, and make it really seem + To him the best, he straight would change his course. + + “But,” cries my friend, “the preacher, if he’s true, + Must labor, not for self, but others’ good; + And in proportion as the self’s forgot, + And others cared for, does his conduct rise.” + + But he can not, if conscious, forget self, + For everything he does is felt within; + But deeds for others’ good a pleasure give; + If done in pain to self, the pleasure’s more. + To gain the pleasure, self is put to pain, + Just as a vesication brings relief. + If he refused to undergo the pain + Remorse would double it. + Among his flock + Some one is sick; to visit him is right, + And done, affords a pleasure. Sweeter far + That pleasure, if he walks through snow and ice, + At duty’s call! + + Sublime self-sacrifice, + Of which men prate, is nothing more nor less + Than base self-worship. Little pain endured + T’ avoid a great; a smaller pleasure lost + To gain a larger! + + All the preacher’s words, + That burn or die upon the stolid ear, + Are spoken from this motive, good to self. + You stare; but it is true. Why does he preach? + To save men’s souls?--Why does he try to save? + Because he loves his fellow-men? Not so. + His love for them but to the pleasure adds, + Which duty done confers; but all his work + Must be with reference to himself alone, + Though cunning self the real motive hides, + And leaves his broad philanthropy and love + To claim the merit. Let a score of men, + The blackest sinners, die. He knows it not, + And feels no pang; but if he is informed, + He suffers reflex pain. And if his charge, + Remorseful tortures for unfaithfulness. + And only is the state of souls to him + Of interest, as they are known. When known, + It is a source of pleasure or of pain + Which all his labor is to gain or shun. + + “This difference then,” says one, “between men’s lives; + Some live for present, some for future good. + The sensual care for self on earth alone, + The mystic cares for self beyond the grave.” + + Both love a present self, in present time. + They differ in their notions of its good. + The stern ascetic, with his shirt of hair, + His bleeding penitential knees, his fasts + To almost death, his soul-exhausting prayers, + Is seeking, cries the world, good after death. + And yet his course of life is that alone + Which could yield pleasure in his state of mind. + He suffers, it is true, but hope of Heaven + Thus rendered sure, as much a present good + Is, as the food that feasts the epicure. + The contemplation of his future home, + Which he is thus securing, is a balm + That heals his stripes, and sweetens all their pain. + The penance blows upon his blood-wealed breast + Are bliss compared to lashes of remorse. + So for the greater good, the hope of Heaven, + He undergoes “the trivial pain of flesh.” + The epicure cares not a fig for Heaven, + But finds his greatest good in pleasing sense. + And so the man who gives his wealth away + Is just as selfish as the money-slave + Who grinds out life amid his dusty bags. + They both seek happiness with equal zest: + The one finds pleasure in the many thanks + Of those receiving, or the public’s praise, + Or if concealed, in consciousness of right; + The other in the consciousness of wealth. + + If all men act from motives just the same, + Where is the right and wrong? In the effect? + The quality of actions must be judged + From their intent, and not their consequence. + If two men matches light for their cigars, + And from one careless dropped, a house is burned, + Is he that dropped it guiltier of crime + Than he whose match went out? Most surely no! + Then is the miser blameless, though he turn + The helpless orphan freezing from his door; + And Dives should not be commended more, + Though all his goods to feed the poor he gives. + + How then shall we determine quality + Of actions, when their sources are the same, + And their effects possess no quality? + Two dead men lie in blood beside the way, + The one shot by a friend, an accident; + The other murdered for his gold. ’Tis plain + No wrong lies in th’ effects, for both are ’like; + And of the agents, he of accident + Had no intent, and therefore did no wrong. + The other killed to satisfy the self, + A motive founding all the Christian work, + And right if that is right. The wrong + Then lies between the motive and effect, + And must exist in the effecting means. + Yet how within the means is wrong proved wrong? + Jouffroy would say, because a disregard + Of others’ rights; for here he places good, + When classifying Nature’s moral facts. + He makes the child first serve flesh self, + Then moral self, and last to others’ good + Ascend, and general order. What a myth! + As if man thought of others, save effect + From them upon himself. But order gives + A greater good to self; therefore he joins + His strength to others, creates laws that bind + Himself and them, and produce harmony. + He thus surrenders minor good of self, + To gain a greater. This is all the need + He has of order, though Jouffroy asserts + That order universal is the Good. + Yet still he says that private good of each + Is but a fragment of the absolute, + And that regard for every being’s rights + Is binding as the universal law! + + Regard for others’ rights indeed, when men + Unharmed agree to hang a man for crime! + Not for the crime--that’s past; but to prevent + A second crime, which crime alone exists + In apprehensive fancy. Thus for wrong + That’s but forethought, they do a real wrong. + To save their rights from harm they fear may come. + They strip a fellow-man of actual right, + And highest, right of life; then dare to call + Their action pure, divinely just, and good, + And all the farce of empty names. + They make + Of gross injustice individual, + A flimsy justice, for mankind at large, + And cry, Let it be done, though Heaven fall! + As if a whole could differ from its parts, + Or right be made from wrong. Yet some may say + That one is sacrificed for many’s good, + Or hung that many may avoid his fate; + And that his crime deserved what he received. + + But law must value every man alike, + And cannot save one man, or thousand men, + From future evil, only possible, + By greatest evil to another man, + In its own view of justice. Nor can crime + Meet punishment, at mortal hands, by right, + For murder’s murder, done by one or twelve, + And legal murder’s done in colder blood, + Whose stains are chalked by vain authority. + Authority! the child of numbers and self-love! + Regard for rights of things, indeed, when beasts + And birds must yield their right of life that man + May please his right of taste. When, during Lent, + The holy-days of fasting and of prayer, + The scaly victims crowd the Bishop’s board, + Their flesh unfleshed by Conscience’ pliant rule, + Our palates must be for a moment pleased, + Though costing something agonies of death; + And worse than robbers, what we cannot give, + We dare to take. + They have no souls, say you? + Nor after death exist? + That nothing’s lost, + Philosophy maintains as axiom truth. + An object disappears, but somewhere lives + In other form. The water-pool to mist + Is changed, the powder into flame and smoke. + My pointer dies, his body, decomposed, + The air, the soil, and vegetation feeds; + Yet still exists, although disintegrate. + For there was something, while the pointer lived, + That was not body, but that governed it, + A spirit, essence, call it what you will, + A something seen but through phenomena, + And by them proved most clearly to exist. + A something, not the feet that made them run, + A something, not the eyes, but knew they saw, + A something, without which the eyes could see + As much as glasses can without the eye, + The something, “Carlo” named, that knew the name. + The pointer dies, and we dissect the flesh. + All there, none missing, to the tiniest nerve; + Yet something’s gone, the more important part, + And can you say that it has ceased to be, + When th’ flesh, inferior to it, still exists? + The spirit, if existent, must be whole, + Nor can be parted till material proven. + That Carlo lives, seems plain as I shall live; + He lived for self, and so did I; we fare + Alike in after-life, we differ here + In consciousness of immortality. + But I digress. + Where is the right and wrong? + This is the Gordian knot no sword can cut, + All sages of the world, with wisdom-teeth, + Have gnawed this file without the least effect. + The thousand savants of old Greece and Rome + Proclaimed a thousand theories of good, + That each, successive, proud devoid of truth. + A myriad moderns have advanced their views, + Each gained a few disciples, who avowed their truth, + And each, by some one else, been proven wrong. + A Bentham marches out utility, + A moral test from benefit or harm. + As if the good depended on effect, + And good would not be good, though universe + In all its phases found no use! And Price + Parades his “reason,” with its simple good; + Who’d rather give the question up, than err, + And so declares it cannot be defined. + Then Wollaston declares that good is truth, + Which no one doubts, far as it goes; it goes + Toward good, as far as truth, its attribute; + Beyond, it cannot reach. And Montesquieu + And Clarke, relation’s order preach; a rule + That makes the growing grain, or falling shower, + A moral agent, capable of good. + Then Wolf and Malebranche perfection see, + And therefore good, in God; but their sight fails, + And God may mirror good, but man’s weak eyes + Ne’er see it. Adam Smith, with “sentiment” + Proceeds to dress a thought, and call it, good; + And makes the abstract of a Universe + Arise from puling human sympathy. + The largest concourse follow Hutcheson, + Although the greater part ne’er heard of him. + The world at large believes in moral sense; + They call it conscience! Oh the precious word! + Though stretched and warped, they almost deify, + And term it man’s tribunal in his breast, + Where he may judge his actions, right or wrong. + What nonsense! Conscience is but consciousness + Of soul, and idea of its good. We form + This idea from regard of fellow-men, + Association, and from thought. We find + Sometimes the good of soul conflicts with flesh, + And when we know the soul above the flesh, + We yield to that the preference. Hence arise + The foolish notions of self disregard. + The savage does not know he has a soul, + And therefore has no conscience. He can steal + Without remorse. But when he learns of soul, + He finds it has a good, and by this test + Tries moral actions, are they good for soul? + And this is conscience. + Yet is conscience changed + By circumstance. The Hindoo mother tears + The helpless infant from her trickling breast, + To feed the crocodile, and save her soul; + She’s happier in its conscience-murdered wail + Than in its gleeful prattle on her knee. + And daily we see one commit a deed + Without a pang, another dare not do. + If conscience may be warped but one degree + By plain Sorites, it may be reversed, + And only prove an interested thought. + + To abstract good no man has found the key, + Though in the various forms of concrete good + We see the similars, and from these frame + A good that serves the purposes of life. + We pass it as we do the concept, “Man,” + But never ope to count the attributes. + Our purest right is but approximate + To this vague abstract idea, how obtained, + We know not. Plato says ’tis memory + Of previous life. Perhaps! ’Tis very dim + In this; and yet it rocks the cradle world + As strongly as the baby man can bear + And so of truth, or aught abstract, we know + Of such existence somewhere, that is all. + “But we,” cries one, “do hold some abstract truth, + In perfect form. The truth of science’ laws, + The truths of numbers, each are perfect truths.” + The truths of science are hypotheses, + And only true as far as they explain. + But perfect truth must save all facts, + That ever rose or possibly can rise. + “The priest of Nature” thought he held the truth + When throughout space he tracked the motes of light, + And ground the sunbeams into dazzling dust. + Our quivering waves through subtle ether flash, + And drown Sir Isaac’s atoms in a flood + Of glorious truth; till some new fact shall rise + To give our truth the lie, and cause a change + Of theory. + Our numbers no truth have, + Or but a shadow, cast on Earth by truth + Existent in some unknown world. We make + Our little numbers fit the shadow’s line + As best they can, and boast eternal truth! + Yet take a simple form of numbers, “two,” + We cannot have a perfect thought of this, + Because the mind directly asks, two what? + ’Tis not enough chameleon to feed + On empty air. Two units, we reply + Then what is meant by unity? An “One,”-- + The mind can only cognize o-n-e, + Which makes three units and not one. + The mind + Must have a concrete object to adjust + The abstract on, before it comprehends. + But two concretes are never two, because + They never can be proved exactly ’like. + To illustrate: suppose two ivory balls, + Of finest mold, and equal weight, precise + As hair-hung scales, arranged most delicate, + Can prove; yet they can not be shown + To differ, not the trillionth of a grain; + Or if they could, they may in density + Be unlike; then to equal weight, one must + Be larger by the trillionth of an inch. + Even if alike in density and weight, + No one will dare assert that they possess + A perfect similarity in all. + The abstract two is twice as much as one, + But our two balls unlike, perforce must be + Greater or less than two of either one; + But two of one, the same can never be + On poor, imperfect Earth. Thus all our twos + Fall, in some measure, short of concept two. + And if we paint the concept to the eye, + The figure 2 of finest stereotype, + Beneath the microscope imperfect shows. + And so our perfect numbers, wisdom’s boast, + Are faint, uncertain shadows in the mind, + That we can never picture to the eye, + Nor truthfully apply to anything. + We use a ragged, ill-drawn substitute, + That answers all the purposes of life. + The truths of mathematics, so sublime, + Are never true to us, concretely known; + And in the abstract so concealed are they, + No man can swear he has their perfect form. + We can’t conceive a line without some breadth-- + The perfect line possesses length alone; + Earth never saw a pure right-angle drawn, + Pythag’ras cannot prove his theorem, + The finest quadrant is but nearest truth, + The closest measures but approximate, + And all from Sanconiathon to Pierce, + With grandest soaring into Number’s realms, + Have only fluttered feebly o’er the ground, + Their heaven-strong wings by feebling matter tied. + + Man is a pris’ner, but the prison walls + Are very vast; so vast the universe + Lies, like a mote, within their mighty scope. + Most are content to grovel on the earth, + Some rise a little way, and sink again; + And some, on noble wing, soar to the bounds, + And eager beat the bars. Beyond these walls + The abstract lies, and oft the straggling rays, + Through crevices and chinks, stray to our jail; + And these we fondly hug as truth. + Poor man! + The glimpses of the great Beyond have roused, + For centuries, his curious soul to flight. + With eagle eye fixed on the distant goal, + He cleaves his way, till dashed against the walls; + Some fall with bruiséd wing again to Earth, + And some cling bravely there, so eager they + To reach the untouched prize, and so intent + Their gaze upon its light, they notice not + The bounds, till Hamilton, with wary eye, + Discovers the Eternal bounding line, + And sadly shows its hopeless fixity. + + But man on Earth I love to ridicule, + A little clod of sordid selfishness! + I’ll take his mental acts of every kind + And see how self originates them all; + I’ll follow Stewart, since he classifies + With shrewd discretion, though his reasoning err, + He places first the appetites; and these + Perforce are selfish, as our self alone + Must feel and suffer with our wants. Our food + Tastes good alone to us. The richest feast, + In others’ mouths, could never satisfy + Our appetite for food; self must be fed. + Desires are next; and that of knowledge, first, + Is proven selfish, by his quoted line + From Cicero--that “knowledge is the food + Of mind”--and food is ever sought for self. + Desire of social intercourse with men, + From thought that it will better self, proceeds. + Man’s state is friendly, not a state of war, + For instinct teaches him society + Will offer many benefits to self; + And only when he has a cause to fear + That self will suffer, does he learn to war. + Desire to gain esteem, is self in search + Of approbation; like the appetite, + The end pursued affects alone the self. + And lastly Stewart boasts posthumous fame, + When self, as sacrificed, can seek no good. + To prove the motive is a selfish good, + I’ll not assert enjoyment after life, + But say, the pleasure of the millions’ praise, + Anticipated in the present thought, + And intense consciousness of heroism, + Far more than compensates the pangs of death. + A Curtius leaping down the dread abyss, + Enjoys his fame enough, before he strikes, + To pay for every pain of mangling death. + Affections next adorn the moral page. + At that of kindred, mothers cry aloud: + “For shame! for shame! do you pretend to say + I love my child with any thought of self? + When I would lay my arm upon the block, + And have it severed for his slightest good!” + I’ll square your love by Reason’s rigid rule, + And test its source. Why do you love him so? + For benefit he has conferred, or may? + No, as the helpless babe, demanding care, + You love him most. Your love is instinct then, + And like the cow her calf, you love your child; + That you may care for him, before self moves. + Then do you love him always just the same, + When rude and bad as when obedient? + But I’ll dissect your love, and take away + Each part affecting self; and see what’s left. + He now has grown beyond your instinct love; + You love him, first, because he is your son, + And you would suffer blame, if you did not; + You love him, too, because he does reflect + A credit on yourself. You feel assured + That others thinking well of him, think well + Of you. Because it flatters all your pride + To think so fine a life is part of yours; + Because his high opinion of your worth + Evokes a meet return; because you look + Into the future, and see honors bright + Awaiting you through him; because you feel + The world is praising you for loving him, + And would condemn you, did you not. And last, + You feel the pleasure deep of self-esteem, + Because you fill the public’s and your own + Romantic ideas of a mother’s love. + + Let each component part be now destroyed, + And see if still you love him. As a man, + He plunges into vice of vilest kinds; + His bright reflections on yourself are gone, + And people think the worse of you, for him; + You never smile, but frown, upon him now, + But still you love him dearly! To his vice + He adds a crime, a foul and blasting crime; + Your pride is gone, you feel a bitter shame, + A score of opposites to love creep in; + A righteous anger at his foolish sins, + A just contempt for nature, weak as his; + But yet you love him fondly, for the world + Is lauding you for “mother’s holy love”; + And you delight its clinging strength to show, + You gain in public credit by your woes, + And get the soothing martyr’s sympathy. + But let him still grow worse, and sink so low, + That people say you are disgraced through him, + Your warmest friends will not acquaintance own, + Your love for such an object’s ridiculed, + And gains respect from none. Your only chance + Is to disown him. How you loud proclaim, + “He’s not my child but by the accident + Of birth!” + Do yet you love him in your heart? + This then because you think yourself so good, + So heaven-like, for loving him disgraced, + You go to see him in the shameful jail; + He spits upon, and beats you from his cell, + And tells you that he hates your very name. + Now all your love is gone, except the glow + Of pity for him chained to dungeon floor; + But he’s released, and deeper goes in crime; + Then, lastly, Pity yields. Your heart is stone! + + But love was only touched in selfish part, + Yet should you still deny your love is self’s; + Of several children, do you not love most + The one whose conduct pleases most yourself? + But love, unselfish, never could be moved + By anything affecting self alone. + + The throbbing hearts of lovers beat for self, + And this I’ll prove, though Pyramus may vow + He has no thought but Thisbe. + Take away + Love’s sensual part, which is an appetite, + And therefore selfish, by its Nature’s law; + And what remains is, first, a slight conceit + At our discernment in the choice we’ve made, + And then a pride that we have won the prize; + A pride, that some one thinks we are the best; + A pleasure in her presence, too, we feel, + Because in every look she manifests + Her preference for us. This is flattering + Beyond all else that we have ever known. + A friend may raise our self-esteem, indeed, + By showing constantly his own esteem, + But never can man’s vanity receive + A higher tribute than a woman’s love! + This tribute, we, of course, reciprocate, + And when together, we increase self-love + By mutual words expressing our regard. + Yet when our love is deepest, if we find + Our Self is not so worshipped as we thought, + Our love grows cold; and when we are not loved + We cease to love. To illustrate permit: + + You’re on the topmost wave of fervid love-- + A wilder flame than poets ever sung; + You’ve passed the timid declaration’s bounds, + And revel in a full assured return. + There is no need for check upon your heart, + It has full leave to pour its gushing tide + Of feeling forth, and meet responsive floods. + You meet her in the parlor’s solitude, + No meddling eye to watch the sacred scene. + The purple curtains hang their corded folds + Before the tell-tale windows; closed the door, + And sealed with softest list. The rich divan + Is drawn before the ruddy grate that glows + With red between the bars, and blue above. + You sit beside The Angel of your dreams, + And gaze in adoration. What a form! + Revealed in faultless symmetry by robes + Of rare, exquisite elegance, and taste, + That fit the tap’ring waist and arching neck. + And how superbly flow the torrents of her hair! + Which she has shaken loose, because “it’s you”; + Her great brown eyes that gaze so dreamily + Upon the flowers of the vellum-screen + That wards the fire from her tinted cheek! + One hollow foot, in dainty, bronze bootee, + Tapping the tufted lion on the rug; + A snowy hand with blazing solitaire-- + The pledge of your betrothal--nestling soft + Within your own. + And thus you sit, and breathe + With tones so soft, because the ear’s so near, + The mutual confidence of little cares; + And how you longed for months to tell your love, + But feared a cold rebuke; and how you dared + To hope through all the gloom; and how you grieved + At every favor shown to other men; + How now the clouds have flown away, + And all is brightness, joy, and tender love. + Then drawing nearer, round the slender waist + You pass an arm; and nestling cheek to cheek, + Palm throbbing palm, you hush all useless words, + And thought meets thought, in silent love. + And now and then, you leave the cheek, to kiss + The coral lips; yet not with transient touch, + But with a fervid, lingering pressure there, + As if you longed to force the lips apart, + And drink the soul; while both her melting orbs + Are drooped beneath your burning inch-near eyes. + The parting hour must come. The good-night said, + You rise to leave; and turning, at the door, + You see her head drooped on the sofa’s arm, + You fancy she is sighing that you’re gone; + And stealing back on tiptoe, gently raise + The beauteous face, and take it ’twixt your palms; + And gazing on the features radiant, + Distorted queerly by your pressing hands, + You feel that life, the parting cannot bear, + That you must stay forever there, or die! + Another effort, one more nectar sip, + You rush from out the room, and slam the door, + Just on the steps, you meet your rival’s face. + He has an easy confidence, and walks + Into the house, as if it were his own. + Poor fellow! how you really pity him! + You can afford to be magnanimous, + And deprecate his certain, cruel fate. + You murmur: “Well, he brings it on himself,” + And turn to go. The window’s near the ground, + And slightly raised. Although you know it’s mean, + You cannot now resist, but creep up near, + And with a finger part the curtain’s fringe. + You see your darling run across the room + With both extended hands, and hear her say: + “Oh Fred! I am so very glad you’ve come, + I feared that stupid thing would never leave, + I had to let him take my hand awhile, + And mumble over it, to get him off.” + + You grasp the iron railing for support, + And, faint and dizzy with the agony + Of love’s departure, cling till all has fled; + Then stagger home without a trace of love. + Yet only Self is touched; her beauty’s there, + Her sparkling wit, and her intelligence, + Her manner even, towards you, has not changed, + And, were you with her, she would be the same. + Love’s every motive disappeared with Self, + No pride of conquest, no romance of thought; + You meet no sympathy, but ridicule! + + A mother’s love may last through injury, + Because it reaps the self’s reward of praise + For constancy, through wrong. The lover’s flame. + Unless supplied with fuel-self, dies out, + For, burning, ’twould deserve supreme contempt. + + The less affairs of life are traced to Self. + The code of Etiquette, that Chesterfield + Defines “Benevolence in little things,” + Is but a scheme to give Self consciousness + Of excellence in breeding, and to keep + “Our Circle” sep’rate by its shibboleth. + The stately bow, the graceful sip of wine, + The useless little finger’s dainty crook + In lifting up the fragile Sevres cup, + The holding of the hat in morning calls, + The touch of it when passing through the streets, + The drawing of a glove, the use of cane-- + Our every act is coupled with the thought + How well Self does all this. + + Our very words + Are used to gratify the self. Men talk + By preference, for they judge their words + Will gain them more applause than listening. + But if attention yields more fruit to Self, + How patiently they hear the longest tale, + And laugh in glee at its insipid close! + If with superiors, we attend, because + Attention pleases more with them than words; + But if inferiors, we must talk the most, + Since their attention flatters us so much. + The cause of converse, Self, is oftenest food. + How few the talks that are not spiced with “I,” + What “I” can do, or did or will! + + Sometimes, + The Self is held, on purpose, up for jest; + As when men tell a joke upon themselves. + But here the shame of conduct or mishap + Is more than balanced by the hearty laugh, + Which gives its pleasant witness to our wit. + We never tell what will present ourselves + In such an aspect laughter cannot heal; + Although it compliments our telling powers. + + Attentions to the fair, but seek for Self + Their smiles of favor. Little deeds of love + To those around us, look for their reward. + The youth polite, who gives his chair to Age, + “Without a thought of Self,” is yet provoked, + If Age do not evince, by nod or smile, + His obligation to that unthought Self. + + The very qualities we call innate, + Arise and rule through Self. Our reverence, + Or tendency to worship, is to gain + A good. Religion grows this tendency + Into the various Churches, all whose ends + Are to secure eternal good for Self. + And those who preach that man does sacrifice + Himself for fellow-men, I ask, why none + Will give his soul for others’? Many give + The paltry life on Earth for others’ good; + The very stones would cry “O! fool!” to him + Who’d yield his soul; for that is highest Self, + And nothing e’er can compensate its loss. + + In all these things, Self stands behind the scenes, + And men see not the force that moves them on. + But in the boudoir, ’tis enthroned supreme, + And does not care to hide the cloven foot. + In every home, the marble and the log, + In mammoth trunks, and chests of simple pine, + In rosewood cases, and the pasteboard box, + Are crammed the slaves of Self, to poor and rich, + The clothes that, fine or common, feed its pride. + The velvets, satins, silken _robes de flamme_, + The worsted, calico, and homespun stripe; + The Guipure, Valenciennes, and Appliqué, + The gimp, galloon, and shallow bias frill; + The Talmas, Arabs, basques and paletots, + The coarse plaid shawl, the hood, and woollen scarf; + The chignons, chatelaines, and plaited braids, + The beaded net, and tight-screwed knot of hair; + The dazzling jewels, ranged in season sets, + The pinchbeck, gilt, and waxen trinketry; + The tinted boots, half-way the silken hose, + The shoes that tie o’er cotton blue-and-white; + The corset laced to hasten ready Death, + The leather belt, that cuts the broad, thick waist; + The bosom heaving only waves of wire, + The bosom, cotton stuffed, beyond all shape; + The belladonna sparkling in the eye, + The finger tip, and water without soap; + The rouge and carmine for the city cheeks, + The berries’ ruddy juice for rural ones; + The pearly powder, with its poisoned dust, + The cup of flour to ghastlify the face;-- + All these, and thousand fixtures none can count, + Man’s vanity, and woman’s love of show, + Appropriate for Self. + And such is Man! + The puzzle of the Universe! Within, + A giant to himself; without, a babe. + A giant that we cannot but despise, + A babe we must admire for his power. + His mind, Promethean spark divine, can pierce + The shadowy Past, and gaze in rapturous awe + Upon the birth of worlds, that from the Mind + Eternal spring to blazing entities, + And whirl their radiant orbs through cooling space; + Or place the earth beneath its curious ken, + And with an “Open Sesame!” descend + Into its rocky chambers, there unfold + The stone archives, and read their graven truths-- + Earth’s history written by itself therein-- + How age by age, a globe of liquid fire, + It dimmer grew, and dark and stiff, + And drying, took a rough, uneven face; + Above the wave, the mountain’s smoking top + Appeared, beneath it gaped the valley’s gorge; + But smoking still, it stood a gloomy globe, + Naked and without life. And how the trees + And herbs their robes of foliage brought; their form + And life adapted to their heated bed. + And how a stream of animation poured + Upon its face, when ready to sustain; + Great beasts who trod the cindered soil unscathed, + And tramped the fervid plains with unscorched soles. + Great fish whose hardened fins hot waters churned + That steamed at every stroke. How periods passed + And fields and forests teemed with gentler life, + The waters wound in rivers to the sea, + Then spread their vap’ry wings and fled to land. + The oceans tossed in bondage patiently; + Volcanic mountains closed their festering mouths, + And Earth made ready for her master, Man. + + It traces Man, expelled from Paradise, + Along the winding track of centuries. + It marks his slow development, from two, + To families, and tribes, and nations vast. + It gazes on the wondrous scenes of war, + And peace, and battle plain, and civic game; + And lives through each, with all of real life, + Except the body’s presence there. It turns + From man to beasts and birds, and careless strokes + The lion’s mane, the humbird’s scarlet throat. + It tracks the mammoth to his jungle home, + Or creeps within the infusoria’s cell. + It measures Earth from pole to pole, or weighs + The bit of brass, that lights the battery spark. + Is Earth too small, it plumes its flight through space; + From world to world, as bird from twig to twig, + It flies, and furls its wing upon their discs, + To tell their weight, and giant size, or breathe + Their very air to find its gaseous parts. + Now bathing in pale Saturn’s misty rings, + Or chasing all the moons of Jupiter + Behind his darkened cone. The glorious sun, + With dazzling vapor robe, and seas of fire, + Whose cyclones dart the forkèd flames far out, + To lap so hungrily amid the stars, + Is but its playhouse, where it rides the storms, + That sweep vast trenches through the surging fire, + In which the little Earth could roll unseen; + Or bolder still, beyond our system’s bounds, + It soars amid the wilderness of worlds; + Finds one condemned to meet a doom of fire, + And makes its very flames inscribe their names, + In dusky lines, upon the spectroscope. + With shuddering thought to see a world consumed, + The fate prepared for ours, it lingers there + Until the lurid conflagration dies. + And then seeks Earth, and leaves the laggard, + Light, + To plod its journey vast. + The smallest mote + Of dust that settles on an insect’s wing, + It can dissect to atoms ultimate. + With these, too small for sight, may Fancy deal, + And revel in her Lilliputian realm. + These atoms forming all, by Boscovitch + Are proved, in everything, to be alike; + And ultimate, since indivisible. + Each in its place maintained by innate force + And relatively far from each, as Earth + From Sun. + Suppose, then, each to be a world, + Peopled with busy life, a human flood, + As earnest in their little plans as we, + As grand in their opinion of themselves! + Oh! what a depth of contrast for the mind! + The finest grain of sand, upon the beach, + Has in its form a million perfect worlds! + Or take the other scale, suppose the Earth, + Our great and glorious Earth, to only form + The millionth atom of some grain of sand, + That shines unnoticed on an ocean’s shore, + Whose waves wash o’er our whirling stars and sun + Too insignificant to feel their surge. + Another step on either side, and mind, + In flesh, shrinks from the giant grasp. + Yet noble are its pinions, strong their flight; + Thrice, only, do they droop their baffled strength, + Before the Future, Infinite, Abstract! + The first is locked, the second out of reach, + The third a maze that none can penetrate. + The first, alone to inspiration opes; + The second dashed to Earth her boldest wing, + Spinoza’s, who essayed the idea God, + And grappling bravely with the grand concept, + So far above the utmost strength of Man, + Placed God’s existence in extent and thought; + And filled all space with God. The Universe, + A bud or bloom of the Eternal Mind, + That opens like a flower into this form, + And may retract Creation in Itself! + Alas! that effort so sublime should end + In mystery and doubt. + A Universe, + How vast so ever, has its bounds somewhere, + But Space possesses none, and God in Space, + Would be so far beyond Creation’s speck, + He scarce would know it did exist. That part + Of Mind, expressed in matter, would be lost + Amid the Infinite domains of thought. + + Yet Man in flesh, the casket of the mind, + Whose wondrous power I’ve told, is ever chained, + A grovelling worm, to Earth, and never leaves + The sod where he must lie. No time is his + But present; not a mem’ry of the past. + His very food, while in his mouth, alone, + Tastes good. He stands a dummy in the world, + That only acts when acted on. How great + The mystery of union ’tween the two! + A feather touches not the body, but the mind + Perceives it; yet the mind may live through scenes + The body never knew, nor can. Yet not + With vivid life--the sense is lacking there. + The memory of a banquet may be plain, + So that the daintest dish could be described, + As well as if the eye and tongue were there; + The eye and tongue, alone the present know, + And find no good in anything that’s past. + All thought is folly, every path is dark; + Truth gleaming fairly in the distant haze, + On near approach becomes the blackest lie. + Man and his soul may go, nor will I fret + To learn their mystic bonds. A worm I am, + And worm I must remain, till Death shall burst + The chrysalis, and free the web-wound wings. + Yet, oh! ’twere grand to spurn the clogging Earth + And cleave the air towards yonder looming cloud; + To stand upon its red-bound crest and dare + The storm-king’s wildest wrath. + + My thoughts + Grew dull, my eyelids slowly closed, the scene + Became confused and melted into sleep. + And far up in the blue, as yet untouched + By clouds, I saw a white descending speck. + Methought ’twas but a feather from the breast + Of some migrating swan, that Earthward fell, + And watched to see it caught upon the wind, + And sail a tiny kite to fairy land. + But circling down, the speck became a dove, + A heron, then a swan, and larger still, + Till I could mark a pair of great white wings, + Between which hung its wondrous form. Still down + It swept, till scarce above the trees it stood, + Resting on quivering wings, as if it sought + A place to ’light. I saw then what it was, + A steed of matchless beauty, agile grace, + Combined with muscled strength; but ere I drew + The first long breath, that follows such surprise + It gently downward swooped, and at my feet, + With dainty hoof, the turf impatient pawed. + Enrapt, I gazed upon its beauteous form, + Its sculptured head, and countenance benign, + The soft sad eyes, the arrow-pointed ears, + The scarlet nostrils opening like two flowers, + The sinewed neck, curved like a swimming swan’s, + The splendid mane, a cataract of milk, + That poured its foaming torrents half to Earth, + The tap’ring limbs, tipped with pink-hued hoofs, + That touched our soil with a proud disdain; + The dazzling satin coat, and netting veins, + And last the glorious wings, whose feathers lapped + Like scales of creamy gold. What seemed a cloth + Of woven snow, with richest silver fringe, + Draped with its gorgeous folds the shining flanks. + + It was perfection’s type, the absolute, + Not one defect; the tiniest hair was smooth, + The smallest feather’s edge unfrayed. The eyes + Without the slightest bloodshot fleck, or mote. + No fault the microscope could have revealed, + Though magnifying many million times. + So great my wonder, that I could not move, + But lay entranced, while he stood waiting there; + Till wearied with my long delay, he raised + His wings half-way, and eager trembled them, + As bluebirds do when near their mate; a neigh + Of trumpet tone aroused me. Then I sprang + Upon his back, and wildly shouted “On!” + A spring with gathered feet, a clash of wings, + That made me cling in terror, and we swept + From Earth into the air. Woods, plains, and streams + Flashed by beneath, as, up and on, we charged + Straight to the frowning cloud. + My very brain + Reeled with our lightning speed, and dizzy height, + And oh! how silent was the air. No sound, + Except the steady beat of fanning wings, + That hurled us on a rod at every stroke. + The bellowing winds were loosed and fiercely met + Our flight. They tossed the broad white mane across + My shrinking shoulders, like a scarf of silk; + They blew the strong-quilled feathers all awry, + And like a banner beat the silvered cloth; + But swerving not to right or left, we pressed + Straight onward to the goal. + At last I reined + My steed upon the shaggy ridge of clouds, + And caracoled along the beetling cliffs, + Up to the very summit. Then I paused. + Behind me lay the world with all its hum + Of life, the distant city’s veil of smoke, + The village gleaming white amid the trees; + The very orchard I had left, now seemed + A downy nest of green, and far away + I caught the shimmer of the sea, where sails, + With glidings, glittered like the snowy gulls. + Behind all was serene, before me seethed + The caldron of the tempest’s wrath. + Thick clouds, + Thrice tenfold blacker than the black outside + We see, deep in the crackling fire-crypts writhed, + And boiling rose and fell. A deafening blast + Roaring its thunder voice above the scene, + As if the fiends of Hell concocted there + The scalding beverage of the damned. + My horse + Had snuffed the fumes, and rearing on the brink, + That fearful brink, an instant pawed the air, + And then sprang off. A suffocating plunge, + Through heat and blinding smoke, while to his neck + Convulsively I clung! Down through the cloud, + Until I gasped for breath, and felt my brain + Was bursting with the fervid weight. + He stopped + Before a large pavilion, round whose walls, + As faithful guard, a whirlwind fierce revolved, + And at whose folded door, with dazzling blade, + The lightning stood a sentinel. My steed + Was passport, and I passed within, but stopped + Upon the threshold, dumb with awe. The walls + Seemed blazing mirrors, whose bright polished sides + “Threw back in flaming lineaments” the form + Of every object there,--a trembling wretch, + With pallid countenance, shown ghastly red, + Upon a horse of War’s own direful hue, + I saw reflected there. The floor seemed made + Of tesselated froth, whose bubbles burst, + With constant hissing, into rainbow sparks; + While like the sulph’rous canopy, that drapes, + At evening’s close, a gory battle-field, + The roof of crimson vapor drooped and rose, + With every breath and every slightest sound. + And in the center of the glowing room, + Upon a sapphire throne an Angel sat, + Upon whose brow Rebuke and Wisdom met. + He gazed upon me with such pitying look, + And yet withal so stern, that all my pride + Was gone, and humble as a conquered child, + I ran with trembling haste and near the throne + Kneeled down. + “Vain man,” he said, “and hast thou dared + To doubt the providence of God; Behold!” + And, lo! one side of the pavilion rose, + And out before me lay Immensity. + The frothy floor, now crumbling from the edge, + Dissolved away close to my very feet, + The walls contracted their three sides in one, + And I, beside a throne I dared not grasp, + Stood on a narrow ledge of fragile foam, + That clicked its thousand little globes of air, + With every motion of my feet. + Far down + Below, the black abyss of chaos yawned, + So vast, I gasped while gazing, and so deep, + The Sun’s swift arrowy rays flash down for years, + And scarcely reach the dark confines, or fade + Amid the impenetrable gloom. Methought + ’Twas Hell’s wide jaws, that opened underneath + The Universe, to catch as crumbs the worlds + Condemned, and shaken from their orbit’s track. + And long I looked into the vast black throat, + To trace the murky glow of hidden fire, + Or catch the distant roar. But all was still; + No murmur broke the silence of its gloom, + No faintest glimmer told of lurking light, + No smoky volumes curdled in its depths; + As dark as Egypt’s plague, serenely calm, + Defying light, the empty hall of Space, + Where twinkled not a star nor blazed a sun.-- + A grand eternal night! + I shuddering turned, + With freezing blood to think of falling there, + And stretched a palsied hand to touch the throne. + The Angel’s eye was sterner, as he waved + Towards my steed, who seemed of marble carved. + The wings unfolded, and he leaped in air, + Beating from off the ledge the flakes of foam + That sank, with airy spirals, out of sight. + With slanting flight across the gulf he sheared; + The moveless wings were not extended straight, + But stood, at graceful angle, o’er his back, + As, swifter than a swooping kite, he flashed + Adown the gloom. His flowing mane broad borne + Out level, like another wing; his feet + With slow ellipses moving alternate, + As if he trod an unseen path. ’Twas grand + To see his graceful form, more snowy white + Against the black relief, sublimely float + Across the dark profound, and down its depths, + Pass from my view. As when an Eagle soars + Beyond our vision in the azure sky, + We wonder what he sees, or whither flies, + So I stood wondering if he would return, + And what his destination down th’ abyss. + + Above, around, all was infinitude + Of light and harmony. The worlds moved on, + In mazy multitude, without a jar, + Star circling planet, planet sun, and suns + In systems, farther yet and farther still, + Till multiplying millions mingled formed + A sheet of milky hue. And far beyond + The last pale star, appeared a dazzling spot, + That flamed with brightness so ineffable + The eye shrank ’neath its gleam. And from its light, + Athwart the endless realms of space, there streamed + A radiance that illumed the Universe, + And down across the chasm of Chaos flung + A wavering band of purple and of gold. + And in that distant spot my ’wildered eyes + Traced out the figure of a Great White Throne, + Round which, in grand and solemn majesty, + Slow swept Creation’s boundless macrocosm.-- + I felt too insignificant to pray, + But mutely waited for the Angel’s words. + He spoke not, but the curtains closer drew, + And left a narrow opening in front. + Then with a speed the lightning ne’er attained, + Our cloud pavilion swiftly whirled through space. + A seed that would have slain me with its haste, + Had not the Angel been so near. + As on the cars, + We dash through towns, and mark the hurrying lights, + Or shudder at an engine rattling by; + So through our door, I marked the countless worlds, + In clustering systems, chained by gravity, + Flash by an endless course. A second’s time + Sufficed to pass our little group of stars, + That waltz about our Sun, as if it lit + The very Universe. Then systems came, + Round which our system moves, and these + Round others, till the series grew so vast + I shrank from looking. Great Alcyone, + Our telescopic giantess, a babe + Amid the monsters of the starry tribe, + The last familiar face in Heaven’s throng, + Blazed by the door; an instant, out of sight! + And after all that we have known or named + On Earth were far behind, the millions came + In endless multitude; and on we swept, + Till worlds became a dull monotony, + And all the wonders of the Heavens were shown. + A planet wheels its huge proportions past, + Its pimpled face with red volcanoes thick, + That, with our speed, seem girdling bands of light; + A Sun, whose flame would fade our yellow spark, + Roars out a moment at our narrow door + As through its blaze we fly, then dies away, + Casting a weird and momentary gleam + Over the Angel’s unrelenting face; + A meteor tears its whizzing way along, + All showering off the scintillating sparks + That mark its trail. Far off, a comet runs + Its bended course, the mighty fan-like tail + Lit with a myriad globes of dancing fire, + That seemed like Argus’ eyes on Juno’s bird. + And on we sped, till one last Sun appeared, + A monstrous hemisphere of concave shape, + And brilliancy intense; it seemed to stand + On great Creation’s bounds, a lense of light. + Close by its vast red rim we shaved, and passed + Beyond, to empty space unoccupied. + No world, no sun, no object passed the door; + The steady blue, tinged with a brightening gold, + Alone was seen. Still on and on we flew, + Until a score of ages seemed elapsed, + And I had near forgotten Earth and home. + + And yet the air grew brighter, till I feared + That we approached a sun, so infinite + In light, that I should sink in dazzled death. + + We came to rest, the curtains fell away, + And lo! I stood within the light of Heaven. + And oh! its glorious light! No angry red, + Nor blinding white, nor sickly yellow glare, + But one vast golden flood, sublime, serene, + No object near, on which it could reflect, + It formed the very atmosphere itself, + An air in which the soul could bathe and breathe, + And ever live without its fleshly food. + + No object near, for on the farthest bounds + Of space immense as mortal can conceive, + Creation hung, a group of clustering motes, + Where only suns were seen as tiny specks, + And Earth and smaller stars were out of sight. + No object near, for farther than the motes, + The walls of Heaven, in glorious grandeur loomed, + Yet near as flesh and blood could bear. + How grand! + From infinite to infinite extent + The glittering battlements were spread, the height + Above conception, built of purest gold, + Yet gold transparent, for I could discern + Though indistinctly, domes and spires beyond, + And all the wondrous workmanship divine, + That blazed with jewels, flashing varied hues + In perfect union; and bright happy fields, + That bloomed with flowers immortal, in whose midst + The crystal river ran. And through the scenes + Thronged million forms, that each sought happiness, + From million varied, purified desires. + Each face serenely bright as Evening’s star, + And some I thought I knew, were dear to me; + But as I gazed, they ever disappeared. + + Along the walls, twelve gates of pearl were seen, + So great their breadth, and high their jewelled arch, + That Earth could almost trundle in untouched, + And in each arch was fixed a giant bell + Of silver, with a golden tongue that hung, + A pendant sun. So wide the silver lips, + That Chimularee plucked up by the roots, + And as a clapper swung within its circ, + Would tinkle, like a pebble, noiselessly + Against the rigid side. And as the saved + Were brought in teeming host, by Angel bands, + Before the gates, the bells began their swing; + And to and fro the ponderous tongue was hurled, + Till through the portals marched the shouting throng, + And then it fell against the bounding side. + And loud and long their booming thunder + Rends the golden air asunder, + While the ransomed, passing under, + Fall in praise beneath the bells, + Whose mighty throbbing welcome tells; + And the Angels hush their harps in wonder-- + Bells of Heaven, glory booming bells! + + Gentler now, the silver’s shiver + Purls the rippling waves that quiver + Through the ether’s tide forever, + Mellow as they left the bells, + Whose softening vibrate welcome tells; + And the quavers play adown the river-- + Bells of Heaven, softly sobbing bells! + + Then the dreamy cadence dying, + Sings as soft as zephyrs sighing; + Faintest echoes cease replying + To the murmur of the bells, + Whose stilling tremor welcome tells, + Faintly as the snow-flakes falling, lying-- + Bells of Heaven, dreamy murmuring bells! + + And in and out those Gates of Pearl, there streamed + A ceaseless throng of Angels, errand bound. + From one came forth a band of choristers, + With shining harps, and sweeping out through space, + Their long white lines bent gracefully, they sang. + Although so far away, that purest air + Brought every note exquisite to my ear. + ’Twas richly worth life’s toil, to catch one bar + Of Heavenly melody. Oh! I would give + My pitiful existence, once again + To hear the strains that floated to me then, + So full, so deep, so ravishingly sweet; + Now gentle as a mother’s lullaby, + They almost died away, then louder rose, + And rolled their volumes through the boundless realms, + That trembled with the diapason grand; + Until eternal echoes caught the strain, + And glory in the highest swelled sublime. + + Entranced, I lay with ’wildered half-closed eyes, + Till from another gate, another host + Marched forth, the armies of the living God. + Beneath their thunder-tread all Heaven shook, + And at their head the tall Archangel strode. + How grandly terrible his mien! His face + Lit with a soul that only kneels to Three; + The lofty brows drawn slightly to a frown + The eyes that beam with vast intelligence, + The depths of distance piercing with their glance; + The chiselled lips, compressed with stern resolve, + Yet marked with lines and curves of tender love, + That ever with a sigh Wrath’s vial broke + Upon the doomed. His splendid form so tall, + That as he paused a moment in the gate + His dazzling crest just grazed the silver bell. + He wore no arms nor armor, save a sword + Without a sheath, that blazed as broad and bright + As sunset bars that shear the zenith’s blue-- + A sword, that falling flatly on the host + Of Xerxes, would have crushed them as we crush + A swarm of ants. An edge-stroke on the Earth + Would gash the rocky shell to caverned fire. + Unfolding wings would shake a continent, + He floated down the depths. Behind him came + A million foll’wers, counterparts in all, + Save presence of command. + I wondered not + That one should breathe upon the Syrian might, + And still the sleeping hearts, four thousand score. + + And from Creation’s little corner came + The Guardian Angels, bearing in their arms + Their charges during life. As laden bees, + They flew to Heaven’s hive; and some passed by + So closely I their burdens could discern; + And though they came from far-off, unseen Earth, + The stiffened forms were borne all tenderly. + Some bore the dimpled babe, with soft-closed eyes, + As if upon its mother’s breast; its hands, + Unhardened yet by toil of life, its face + Unfurrowed yet by care’s sharp plough; and some + The age-bent form, with ghostly silvered hair, + And features gaunt in death, that would have seemed + A hideous sight, in any light but Heaven’s; + Some bore the rich, who made of Mammon friends, + Who wore the purple with a stainless soul; + Some bore the poor, who mastered poverty, + And broke the ashen crust beneath God’s smile; + Their work-worn hands now folded peacefully, + And passing towards the harp, the weary feet, + So often blistered in life’s bitter dust, + To tread with kings the golden streets of Heaven; + And some the maiden form bore lovingly, + So fair, they seemed twin sisters. + And I saw, + That, passing through the amber air, they caught + Its glowing dust upon them, and were changed, + The livid to the radiant. Then as they + Approached the City, all the walls were thronged, + And all the harps were throbbing to be swept. + And mid the throng there moved a dazzling Form, + The jewels of whose crown were shaped like thorns. + He stood to welcome, and the gates unclosed, + And passing through them, all the death sealed eyes + Were opened, and they lived! + And then I knew + What happiness could mean. To leave the Earth, + With all its torturing pains and ills of flesh; + The lingering, long disease, the wasted frame, + And, e’en in health, the constant dread of death, + That like the sword of Damocles impends, + And none may tell its fall. + And worse than flesh, + The tortures of the mind in fetters bound; + Its chafings at its puling impotence, + Its longing after things beyond its reach, + Its craving after knowledge never given, + Its constant discontent with present time, + Its looking towards a future, that but breaks + To light alone in distance, never near; + Its maddening retrospect o’er wasted life, + And loss of golden opportunities; + Its consciousness of merit none admit, + Its sense of gross injustice from the world; + The forced reflections on the sway of self, + And consequent contempt for all mankind, + Or shameful servitude to their regard; + The poisoned thorns, that skirt the “Narrow Way”; + The sneering laugh, the tongue of calumny, + The envious spites and hates ’tween man and man, + The doubts that swarm with thought about our soul, + That whispers all our labor here is vain, + That death is but extinction, Heaven a myth! + + To leave all these, and find a perfect life, + To know that Heaven is sure eternally, + That sickness ne’er again will waste our frame, + That death shall never come again. The mind + In perfect peace and happiness; the hidden + Spread out before its ken; a sweet content + Pervading every thought, because “just now” + Yields happiness as great as future years; + Because Life’s highest end is now attained. + The consciousness of merit, with reward + Surpassing far all we deserved. A Home + Of perfect peace, no envious spite or hate + Within its sacred walls, but all pure love + Towards our fellows, gratitude to God, + A gratitude that all Eternal life + Will not suffice to prove. ’Twere joy enough + To lie before the Throne, and ever cry + Our thanks for mercy so supreme! And oh! + The vast tranquillity of those who feel + That life on Earth is ended, Heaven gained! + The Angel marked my gaze of rapt delight, + And said, “Wouldst thou go nearer?” Swift as light + We moved towards the City. On the steps, + In dreamy ecstasy, I lay, afraid to move, + Lest all the panorama should dissolve. + I cared not that I was unfit to go, + I cared not that I must return to Earth; + I felt one moment in the Golden walls + Was worth a dungeon’s chains “threescore and ten.” + The glory of its music, and its light, + Grew too intense, and sense forsook my brain. + + Again my eyes unclosed, and ’mid the stars, + Familiar faces of the telescope, + We sped, while on the last confines of space, + The City lay with golden halo girt. + The systems passed, we neared old homelike Earth; + And far enough to take a hemisphere + At single glance, we paused. The little globe + Was puffing on, like Kepler’s idea-beast, + With breath like tides, and echo sounds of life; + Thus trundling on its journey round the sun + While o’er its back swarmed men the parasites. + As rustic lad, who visits some great town, + Returns ashamed of humble country home, + So I now blushed to own the world I’d thought + Was once so great. + The Angel pointed down, + And said, “Behold the vast domains of Earth! + Behold the wondrous works of man, that calls + Himself the measure of the Universe! + Those gleaming threads are rivers, and the pools + His boundless oceans. Those slow-gliding dots + The gallant ships, in which he braves the storms + The largest white one, see, is laboring now + Beneath a cloud, your hand from here might span; + What tiny tossings, like a jasmine’s bloom + That drifts along the ripples of a brook! + Now on the wave, now ’neath it, now ’tis gone; + The pool hath gulfed it like a flake of snow. + See, there are railroad lines, what works of art! + Thou canst not see the blackened threadlike tracks, + But thou mayst see the thundering train, that creeps + Across the landscape like a score of ants + Well laden, tandem, crawl across the floor. + ’Twill take a day to reach yon smoky patch + Of pebbles! ’Tis a great metropolis! + Where Man is proud in power and lasting strength; + Where Art hath budded into perfect bloom, + Where towering domes defy the touch of Time, + And rock-ribbed structures reck not of his scythe + On every side, proclaimed Creation’s lord, + Poor flattered Man the title proudly takes-- + One little gap of Earth, and not a spire + Would lift its gilded vane; the very dust + Would never rise above the chasm’s mouth. + And mark yon crowd outside the city’s bounds, + They hail Man’s triumph over Nature’s laws; + He conquers gravity, and dares to fly! + The speck-like globe slow rises in the air, + While all the throng below shout, “God-like Man!” + How pitiful! The flag-decked car but drags + Its way, a finger’s breadth above their heads, + And falls, a few leagues off, into the sea; + When ships must rescue Man, the king of air! + “He soon will touch the stars,” enthusiasts cry; + His highest flights ne’er reach the mountain-top, + That lifts its mole-hill head above the plain. + + What different views above and underneath! + From one, the silken pear cleaves through the cloud, + And floats, beyond your vision, in the blue, + And franchised Man no longer wears Earth’s chain; + The other sees him drifting o’er the ground, + Beneath the level of the hills around, + The captive still of watchful gravity. + + Upon yon strip of land, two insect swarms + Are drawn up, front to front, in serried lines; + These are the armies, ’neath whose trampling tread + The very Earth doth tremble, now they join + In dreadful conflict. From the battling ranks + Leap tiny bits of flame, and puffs of smoke, + Where thundering cannon belch their carnage forth; + The heated missile cleaves its sparkling way, + The screaming shell its smoke-traced curve; the sword + Gleams redly with the varnish of its blood, + The bayonets like ripples on a lake. + How palsied every arm, how still each heart! + If one discharge of Heaven’s artillery roared + Above their heads--not that faint mutter thou + Perchance hast heard from some electric cloud, + But when a meteor curves immensity, + And bursts in glittering fragments that would dash + Thy world an atom from their path. But God + Hath thrown the blanket of His atmosphere + Around the Earth, and shield, it from the jar + Of pealing salvos, that reverberate + Through Heaven’s illimitable dome. + Yet thou, + The meanest of thy race of worms, hast dared + To question God’s designs. Know then that He + Ordains that all, His glory shall work out. + The coral architect beneath the wave + Doth magnify Him, as the burning sun + That lights a thousand worlds. His power directs + The mechanism of a Universe, + Whose vastness thou hast been allowed to see, + And yet the mottled sparrow in the hedge + Falls not without His notice. Magnitude + Is not the seal of power, though man thinks so; + The least brown feather of the sparrow’s wing, + In adaptation to its end displays + God’s wisdom, as the ocean. Harmony + Is Heaven’s watchword, key to all designs. + A tendency towards perfection’s end + Pervades Creation; to this perfect end, + The polity Divine is leading Earth. + Endowed with reason, Man, perforce, is free; + And God, forseeing how he’ll freely act, + Adjusts all circumstance accordingly. + The order of this sequence, Man doth learn + In part; adapts himself to these fixed laws; + And thus is formed a general harmony. + Although the individual may oppose, + His forseen freedom, acting in a net + Of circumstance, secures the wished-for end. + The bloodiest wars are sources of great good, + Invasive floods rouse national energies, + Or, mingling, form a greater people still; + Hume’s skepticism foils its own design, + And rouses lusty champions of the Truth, + Who build its walls far stronger than before. + Poor sordid Man! like all your gold-slave race, + You deem wealth happiness. Hence, all your doubts + About God’s providence are based on gold. + The wicked have it, and the righteous not. + What you assert is oftenest reversed, + And in a census of the world, you’d find + The good, in every land, the wealthiest. + But Earth is not the bar where Man is judged; + But only where free-will and circumstance + May join in general progress. Gold is good! + Then good depends on use of circumstance, + And not on moral merit. Well ’tis so! + For were the righteous only blessed, all men + Would righteousness pursue, from sordid aims,-- + The most devout, who love their money best; + And thus good actions’ essence would be lost, + That they be done for good, within itself, + And not for benefit to be conferred. + + Then for your doubts about the righteous poor; + A certain law is fixed for general good,-- + Some actions yield a gain and some a loss. + A wicked man may use the first, and gain, + A righteous man may use the last, and lose; + The wicked does not gain by wickedness, + But by compliance with this natural law. + The righteous, still as righteous, might have gained + By different course of conduct, had he known; + But his condition now, can but be changed + By special miracle; but miracles, + In favor of the righteous, would destroy + All strife for good as good. + Their compensation in another world; + The poor may find + And even here, in consciousness of right, + In surety of Heav’n, and peace of mind. + And in the case you’ve stated, like all those + Who talk as you have done, you overdraw, + And color more with Fancy than with Truth. + You’ll find no widow, perfect in her trust, + As you’ve described, who is so destitute. + Go search the lanes and alleys; where you find + The greatest squalor, there is greatest crime; + For poverty is oftenest but a name + For reckless vice, and vile depravity. + Your case is but exception to the rule, + And not the rule, of Providence. To give + The righteous, only, wealth and worldly store + Would take away Man’s freedom, and all good. + + But I will answer in your folly’s mode. + The justice, then, of Nature’s laws you doubt, + Forgetting they are fixed for general good, + And not for individual. These laws, + In their effects, you praise as very good; + Yet, in their causes, call the most unjust. + The fertile fields, with grain for man’s support, + Are nourished by a miasmatic air, + That, sickening but a few, feeds all the world. + While, were the air all pure, a few were well, + And millions starving. In the tropics, too, + The scenes you deprecate, themselves but cause + The very beauties you admire. Unjust, + You would enjoy effects without a cause. + The goods of Nature often take their rise + From what to man proves evil. For the goods, + He makes his mind to meet the evils; then + Can he complain, or think it hard to bear? + But Nature’s dealings towards Man are just. + He knows that he is free, and Nature not; + If he opposes Nature’s laws and falls, + Is Nature to be blamed? The widow’s cot + Is frail; the laws of general good require + A storm; it comes, and shattered falls the cot. + Should God have saved it by a miracle, + Then all His people could demand the same, + And Earth would soon become the bar of God, + God may exert a special providence, + But Man may not detect it, as the rule + Invariable of life, and still be free; + For he were thus compelled to seek the good. + Then Nature, over Man, holds not a tyranny, + But keeps the perfect pandect of her laws, + And Man is free to obey them, or oppose. + + Like shallow-thoughted reasoners of Earth, + You make assertions without slightest proof, + Or faintest shade of truth. Your thesis, this: + God marks with disapproval all the good, + And blesses all the evil with His smile. + Entirely false in every case! The good + Are ever happiest, in peace of mind, + In ease of conscience, and the hope of Heaven. + The wicked may be even rich, but wealth + And happiness are far from synonyms. + Is happiness the child of circumstance, + Or is it not the offspring of the mind? + And if the mind be tranquil and serene, + Does happiness not follow everywhere? + The cause of doubt in you, and many more, + Is that the thousands who profess the good, + Are ever mourning their unhappy lot, + And sighing o’er the gloomy, narrow way; + The tribulation of the promise read, + Without its good cheer context. These are they + Who stamp with misery’s blackest seal, a life + Of righteousness. By these you cannot judge, + For they are not what they profess, and would + Be miserable in Heaven, unless changed. + But take the truly good, one who’s content + To take whate’er befalls, submissively; + Who feels assured that all works for the best; + Take him, in all conditions, rich or poor, + In sickness or in health, in pain or ease; + Compare your happy wicked, with his gold, + ’Twill not require a moment to decide + Which one is happier! + Again, you ask + Why Man was not created happy, and kept so? + His very freedom and intelligence + Prevents a forcèd happiness. The ends + Of all Creation would be marred, and Man + Lose personality. A happiness + Made universal, asks morality + That’s universally compelled; and lost + Is all the scheme of virtue and reward. + Man, forced to action would degenerate + Into a listless, lifeless thing; the world + Lose all its fine machinery of thought + Combined with action. Beautiful variety + Could not exist, dull sameness would be life. + But Man is placed, with free intelligence, + Amid surroundings from which he may cull + A happiness intense, whate’er their nature be. + If bright, the consciousness they are deserved; + If gloomy, sweet reflections that they drape + A future all the brighter for their gloom. + + But Man, within himself, your puzzle proves; + And not to you alone, for Angel wings + Have hovered o’er your globe, and Angel minds + Peered curiously into his soul, to learn + Its mysteries, in vain. The Mind Supreme + That formed the soul, alone can understand + Its wondrous depths. ’Tis not surprising then + That Man has tried in vain to know himself. + His mind, compared with his body, seems so great, + He deems its power unlimited. He finds + It weak, before the barriers of thought, + That gird it, mountain high, on every side. + No path can he pursue that’s infinite. + And few exist, that do not thither lead. + Hence all the vagaries that have obtained + Among your race. The doubt of everything, + Is only too far tracing of a thought + Into absurdity intense. If you + Deem all the world effect upon yourself, + A principle of fairness would demand + That you accord the right to other men. + The question then arises, who is he + That really does exist, and all the rest + His ideas? Sure your neighbor has the right + To claim the honor, just as well as you! + Hume’s foolish thought, extended to its length, + Will answer not a single end of life, + And terminates in nonsense none believe. + + The conflict of the mental powers defeats + Your inquiries. You cannot reconcile + The unruled circumstance, with Man’s free-will + You deem the motive free, and Man its slave; + As if the motive, unintelligent, + Could have a freedom, or a slavery! + You make the motive to exist within the mind, + When it, perforce, must be without. You get + The unruled motive from the circumstance, + When this itself must act upon the mind, + And if _free_ motives rise within the mind, + They are a _part_, and therefore _mind_ is free. + And what you deemed a motive to the mind, + Was mental action, and its modes of thought. + The motive is confined to circumstance, + And mind the circumstance can oft control, + And even when it cannot, acts at will. + + The mind may to a kingdom be compared, + Where Reason occupies the throne. Beneath + Its scepter bow, in perfect vassalage, + The faculties, desires, and appetites. + These then are acted on by motive powers, + And straight report the action to their king, + Who does impartially decide for each. + The unruled motive is without the mind, + And forms no part of it, although the parts, + Receiving motive action, so are called. + Thus when you hunger, the desire of food, + Confined to mind, is not a motive power; + But urged by motive bodily demand, + It tells the need to Reason, who decides. + Thus when you pare your peach, the tempting fruit + And fleshly need, move on the appetite, + Who begs the Reason for consent to eat; + Your friend’s opinion of your self-control, + Is motive to Desire of esteem, + Who begs the Reason to refuse consent. + The Reason, then, like righteous judge, decrees + In favor of that one, more strongly shown; + And feels a perfect freedom in its choice. + + ’Tis most unfair to wait the action’s end, + Then cry, the mind was forced to choose this act; + But choice is Reason’s free decree. Sometimes + The Reason errs, and evil then ensues; + But Reason, now more conscious that ’tis free, + Regrets it had not acted otherwise. + By knowing what your reason deems the best, + You judge how other men will act. You learn, + By intercourse, what they permit to change + The Reason’s sentence. So, while with a friend, + You show your wealth, because you know he’s free, + And can, and will, resist impulse to crime. + Were he not free, you’d dare not go alone + With him, for, any moment, might arise + A motive irresistible, and he + Would kill and rob, because that motive’s slave. + Were he not free, you were no more secure, + In pleasant parlance, than on desert isle. + + The laws are made for man, alone, as free. + For, otherwise, the motives they present + Were blind attempts so coincide with Fate. + They would complete the gross absurdity, + Of Man collective governing himself, + And therefore free, while individuals + Are helpless slaves of motives they but aid + To furnish. + Fate, as held in fullest form, + Yourself has proved the theory of fools; + For were it true, a blind passivity + Were Man’s perfection on the Earth. Compare + The two; Free-will as held, whate’er their faith, + By every one, in daily practices; + A world of harmony, for very wars + Yield good; a mechanism complicate, + That even Angels, wondering at, admire; + A world, whose wondrous progress is maintained + By practical belief in liberty. + And on the other hand, behold a world + Of universal inactivity! + Its millions starving for delinquent Fate;-- + I doubt your faith would last till dinner-time, + A morning’s lapse would change a hungry globe + To firm belief in free-will work for food. + + With many, God’s foreknowledge binds free-will; + He knows the future, how each man will act, + And man can never change from what God knows. + They reason thus, that prescience is decree, + And what God knows will happen, must take place. + That God may know the future of _free_-will + I prove by this. Suppose two worlds alike, + And governed by two Gods. Each one can see, + And foresee all transpires in both the worlds, + Yet each o’er th’ other’s world exerts no power. + A man in one does wrong; the other God + May have foreseen the action for an age, + Yet had not slightest power to cause or stop. + Does his foreknowledge qualify the act? + If thus you can suppose, why not believe, + When errors flow from opposite belief? + God in the future stands, and waits for man, + Who works the present, only gift of Time. + There is no future save in God’s own mind. + Man’s future means continued present time; + God’s future is but present time to Him, + In which He lives, not will live when it comes. + Man’s acts He sees as done, not to be done. + And God compels not more than Man does Man, + Who sees his fellow’s deeds, not causes them. + Man only knows Man’s present acts; but God + The future sees, as present to His mind. + + To end with perfect proof, you know you’re free. + This all the world attests, and each believes. + How subtle soe’er may his reasoning be, + He contradicts it throughout all his life; + And all his plans, and all the right and wrong + Of self and friends he bases on free-will. + If disbelief no inconvenience prove, + Few men believe what is not understood; + And yet the most familiar things of life + Are far beyond their comprehensions’ power. + Who understands the turning of the food + To sinew, muscle, blood, and bone? yet who + Will starve because he knows not how ’tis done? + Who understands the mystery of birth, + And when and where the soul originates? + And yet a million mothers bend, to-day, + O’er tender babes, and know that they exist; + A billion people know they once were born. + Who understands the mystery of death, + And how the soul is severed from its clay? + Yet who has not wept o’er departed ones, + Received the dying clasp, the dying look, + And known, full well, Death’s bitter, bitter truth? + None comprehends the movement of a limb, + Yet many boast the powers of their’s might. + Then why doubt freedom of the will, when life, + In every phase, but proves its certain truth? + The edifice of shallow theorists + Before the sweeping blade of practice falls. + + Your dive into the heart yields folly’s fruit; + The selfish theory, carried to its end, + Makes wrong of right, and overturns the world. + And strong it is in seeming; for the self, + In human conduct, plays important part. + But ’tis not action’s only source, nor dims + The quality of every action’s worth. + ’Tis true that Man exists in self alone, + And in himself feels pain or pleasure. True, + An instinct teaches to avoid the one, + And seek the other; true, that every act, + How small soe’er, gives pleasure or gives pain. + Yet thousand deeds are done without regard + To one or other, or effect on Self. + Howe’er an action may affect the Self, + If he that acts has not a thought of it, + The action is not selfish. You appeal + To Man, and so will I appeal to you. + You find a helpless brute, with broken limb, + Upon the roadside, moaning out its pain. + Now, though to aid will surely pleasure give, + And to neglect will cause remorseful pain, + Is there a single thought of this, when you, + With kindest hand, bind up the swollen bruise, + And hold the grateful water to its mouth? + Is not each thought to ease the sufferer’s pain? + Is not the Self first found, when on your way + You go, with lighter heart, for kindness done? + And while you think with pleasure on the deed, + Would you not feel despised in your own eyes, + If consciousness revealed ’twas done for Self? + But should you say that Self was thus concealed, + And still evoked the deed, the argument + The same; if Self was out of thought, the deed + Had other source. + In all, you thus mistake + The deed’s effect, unthought of, for its source. + God, in His wisdom, hath affixed to good + Performed, a pleasure, and to evil, pain. + But selfish actions are not good, you’ve said, + And therefore cannot slightest pleasure yield. + Here, then, your system contradicts itself; + All actions emanate from love of Self, + To find the highest pleasure for that Self; + And yet the pleasure’s lost by very search; + What good soe’er apparently is sought, + The consciousness of selfish aims destroys. + And here is wisdom manifest. When Self + Would seek the good, for pleasure to the Self, + The pleasure is not found; but when it seeks + The good alone, true pleasure is conferred. + I mean the Self of soul, not Self of flesh; + For pleasure to the sense, to be attained + Is sought; these two are mingled intricate + (And hard to separate), in thousand ways. + But when Man’s higher Self would seek its good, + It must forget the Self. In every case + You instanced, Self of soul must be unthought, + For pleasure will not come at call of Self. + Your gambler none will doubt has selfish ends; + Not so the preacher, for his pleasure sought, + Would ne’er be found; it must be out of thought. + His burning eloquence, his pastoral care, + Can not proceed from any love of Self, + For Self would suffer, when it knew their source; + But as he acts from love of good as good, + The Self is happy. When he ascertains + That some have died in sin through his neglect, + The Self is grieved, not that it was uncared, + For care of Self would not allay the pain, + But that a duty had not been performed; + That good had been neglected, as a good. + The gambler’s object may be highest good + For Self, according to his estimate; + The preacher seeks a good, but not for Self; + When Self appears, the good to evil turns. + Nor is the mystic selfish in his cave, + Save that he buries talents in himself, + That might avail for good to other men; + But all his mind is bent on pleasing God, + His only thought of Self is for its pain; + And this he deems acceptable to Heaven. + You can not judge by your analysis, + But by what passes in the actor’s mind. + One surely then could not be selfish termed, + Who only lived to mortify the Self, + Howe’er mistaken may his conduct be. + Nor is the man, who gives his wealth away, + If from right principles he gives. ’Tis true, + He finds a pleasure in the deed when done, + But if to gain that pleasure he has given, + It turns to gall and wormwood in his grasp. + If two men matches light, and know full well, + If one is dropped, a house will be consumed, + He is the most guilty that allows its fall. + The miser, then, who knows he does a wrong, + Is by that knowledge rendered criminal. + “The quality of actions must be judged” + From their intents, that often differ wide; + The man who shoots his friend by accident + Has no intent, and therefore does no wrong; + But he who murders does a score of wrongs,-- + A score of basest motives prompt the deed, + All centred in the Self. The Christian’s work + Must, from its very nature, have no Self, + Or it becomes unchristian. Man can judge, + Not from effect, but motives ascertained + By inference, and experience. The law + Is formed hereon, and modified by years. + Time teaches men that punishment will stop, + And only punishment, the spread of crime. + Instinct and Nature’s order teaches you + That pain must follow wrong. A man commits + A crime; if left unpunished, he repeats; + And others, seeing his security, + Will do as he has done. So all mankind + Would hasten on to lawlessness and ruin. + But law, for real wrong inflicts a wrong, + Which would be just did it no farther go; + But it is proved expedient, inasmuch + As it prevents continued crime. Then death + By law can not be murder termed, since good + In aim and end, without malicious thought. + Thus good to many flows from wrong to one + (If that may wrong be termed that takes the rights + By conduct forfeited), who should receive, + Though none reaped benefit. For many’s good, + The law is made, yet never does a wrong + To individuals, unless deserved. + + Throughout your reas’ning, like all Earthly minds, + When dataless, essaying hidden truths, + You wander blindly in conjecture’s field, + And if you find the truth, it is a chance. + You fain would raise a stone of skepticism, + By granting souls immortal unto beasts; + You prove your pointer must possess a soul, + And by your argument, the trees have souls; + For when an oak has fallen, every twig + May still be there, and something, life, be gone. + A chair, a table, anything you see, + Possesses something, not of any parts, + But that to which the parts are said, belong, + Then, one by one, take all the parts away, + The something called the table must exist, + For ’twas not in a part, nor is removed. + + The mind of beasts exists but through their flesh, + And is developed subject to its laws, + And flesh is the condition of their life. + When flesh dissolves, the mind disintegrates, + And ceases to exist. Man feels within, + The consciousness of soul, that would survive + Though flesh were torn to shreds upon the wheel. + The parts of soul that live alone through flesh, + Must perish with it in the hour of death. + + But having postulated Self, as source + Of human conduct, you compel the acts + To fit your theory. You change effect + For cause. Where’er a moral pleasure’s found, + You judge that for its gain the deed was done; + As if the pleasure could be gained by search! + That Self does enter largely into inner life + Is very plain, for everything affects, + In some way, Self; but does the mind regard + Effect, or is its object something else? + The appetites, affections, and desires, + You make of selfish origin, yet know + That is not selfish, which alone affects; + But acting with a reference to effect. + The appetites are instincts; as you breathe, + You hunger, thirst, in helplessness. Not Self, + But food or drink, the object of your thought. + And even while the taste is in your mouth, + The mind dwells on the taste, not on the Self. + Desires are partly selfish in their mode; + Desire of knowledge, seeking honor’s meed, + Is selfish; led by curiosity, + ’Tis not more selfish than an appetite. + Desire of power, esteem, and wide-spread fame, + Is selfish, when the thought of their effect + On Self shapes out the conduct; when desired + For their own sake, unselfish. + On the list + Affections terminate, you falsely rail + The mother, and the lover; both sincere, + And both without a thought of selfish aim. + ’Tis no reproach to say the mother’s love, + In fervid instinct, and development, + Is like the cow’s, that God in wisdom gives. + No love so pure as that which moves the cow + To hover round her young, to bear the blows + Impatient hunger deals the udder drained, + To smooth with loving tongue the tender coat, + Or meet the playful forehead with her own; + With threatening horn, to guard approach of harm; + And watch, with ceaseless care, the charge in sleep. + Her careful love continues, till the calf + Has grown beyond her need, and ceases then. + A mother loves because it is her child: + This is the surest reason you could give. + Th’ affection is spontaneous in her breast, + But fed and strengthened by his life, if good. + The opposites to love you named, affect + Her love, by not an injury done to Self, + But by their evil, which her soul abhors. + Her son’s antagonism’s not to her, + But to the good she loves. Her heart withdraws + Its twining tendrils from unworthiness. + As usual, you select supposed effects, + And then assume their causes. Could you see + The mother’s heart, you’d find the loss of love + Caused not by wrong to her, but wrong abstract + Developed in the concrete deeds of crime. + Her love is governed by a moral sense, + Or idea of the good; the people’s thought + About herself comes in as after-part. + Bad treatment to herself, although it pain, + Deals not a fatal blow to love, except + As showing lack of principle in him. + And so your lover is not hurt in Self, + But moral sense. The loved one’s perfidy, + And not her ridicule, beheads your love; + Her stunning words were playful pleasantry, + Did they not show the baseness of the heart. + Indeed, to turn your reasoning on yourself, + Her manner even towards you has not changed, + And were you present, she would still seem yours; + Her eaves-dropped words do not affect the Self, + Save as they show her falsity of heart. + And tossing on your pillow, through the night, + The crushing thought of wrecked integrity + Gives deeper pain than all her ridicule. + And Self, though pained at thought of being duped, + Enjoys relief in thought of its escape. + To show that Love is built on higher grounds + Than paltry good for Self; that it must have, + As corner-stone, a percept of the good, + Existing in the object loved, suppose + You’re on the topmost height of wildest love, + Your arm around her, and your lingering kiss + Upon her lips; and Self is king of love. + She, nestling on your shoulder, finds ’tis wrong, + That love, however true, may grow too warm; + That every kiss, however pure, abstracts + Some little part from maiden modesty, + And steals a pebble from her honor’s wall + And rising with the firm resolve, says, “Cease, + Unwind your arm, restrain your fervid lips; + It may be wrong, and right is surely safe!” + Now though the Self is bitterly denied, + The rapturous clasp and tender kiss forbid, + Is not your love increased a thousand-fold? + Do not you feel intensely gratified + At this assurance of her moral worth? + And would you, for the world, breath aught to cause + Her pain, or least regret for her resolve? + How firm your trust, how sweet your confidence! + You know ’twas not capricious prudery, + For your caresses had been oft received; + Nor was it sly hypocrisy to win + Your heart, for that was long since hers. No thought, + But spotless purity, inspired the act; + And you are happy, though the Self’s denied. + + The little things of life, that men account + Without a moral value, may be done + With reference to Self; but oftenest, + The mind regards the act, not its effect + Upon the Self. The code of Etiquette, + The small amenities of social life, + The converse, and the articles of dress, + May all belong to Self; but moral acts, + Those known as right or wrong, have higher source + Than Self in any mode. + Within Man’s breast + There’s something, apprehending good and bad, + Called conscience, or the moral sense; it views, + Impartially, each act of his, decides + Its quality by rule of right and wrong; + All trust its judgments most implicitly.-- + The good is found, yields greatest happiness; + Yet seek it for the sake of happiness, + And good is evil, with its misery! + The good must be pursued, because a good, + The evil shunned, because an evil. Thus, + The moral sense discerns these qualities + In others, and directs our love. + A blow + The deadliest to our love, would be a blow + Aimed at the principle of good. A love, + Existing through the injuries done to Self, + May meet the public’s praise, and feel its own; + But love would merit self-contempt, that loved + Whate’er opposed the good. The son may treat + The mother with unkindness, yet her love + Be undiminished; if he lie, or steal, + Her love is less; she cannot love his deed, + And cannot love the heart from which they flow + So with the youth who gives his chair to Age, + He does not so resent that Self’s denied + Its meed of thanks, as that ingratitude + Should thus be manifest, in little things. + A comrade, served the same, would anger cause. + + But him who would give up the highest Self, + The soul, for others’ good, you deem a fool; + And ask why sacrifice ne’er claimed a soul? + Because the soul cannot be sacrificed; + No harm to that can others benefit. + But if it could, how truly grand the man + Who’d take eternal woe for fellow-men! + But God, who makes the soul the care of life, + Makes every soul stand for itself alone, + And in His wisdom hath ordained this law: + The greater good man gets for his own soul, + The greater good on others’ he confers, + While evil to himself, an evil gives. + + Then comes the question of this abstract good, + That moral sense declares the end of life. + What is its nature? whence does it arise? + And whence does man derive the half-formed thought? + You have compared the systems that define, + Each in its way, the hidden theory. + None satisfy, though each some element + Sets forth in clear distinctness. Take them all, + Select the true of each, as Cousin does, + And will eclecticism satisfy? + And does the soul not cry for something more? + For something that it feels ’twill never reach, + The good, as known to minds unclogged with flesh? + Man takes the dim outlines of abstract thought, + And seeking to evolve their perfect form, + The very outlines grow more indistinct; + As gazing at a star will make it fade. + Man’s only forms of good are blent with flesh, + And when he seeks to take the flesh away, + And leave the abstract, he is thus confused, + As if he should withdraw the wick and oil, + And seek to find the flame still in the lamp. + + To learn the source of ideas of the Good, + Trace Man collective, to his babyhood; + For ’mid the prejudice of full-grown thought, + The truth would be effectually concealed. + Through every people scattered o’er the globe, + There does prevail some idea of a God; + Though rude and barbarous this idea be, + It still, in some form, does exist. The good, + With all, bears reference to this thought; + And what this Deity approves is good, + And what He disapproves is bad. Men learn + What He approves, and what He disapproves, + By revelation, inference, and instinct. + God’s sanction then is origin of Good, + Though afterwards men learn the sweet effects, + And practise it for its own sake; and call + Their little effort, grandest abstract truth. + Developing in intellectual strength, + They plaster up this good in various forms, + Until, refined beyond all subtilty, + It seems to them a self-existent good. + + The good is then a certain quality, + In actions, or existence, that assures + Divine approval. This vast idea, God, + Creation sows in every human heart; + All Nature’s grand designs demand a God, + A God intelligent. The same instinct + That tells His being, teaches what He loves; + And what He loves with every people’s good. + But different nations entertain ideas + Diverse in reference to a Deity, + And different notions of what pleases Him. + One deems the care of God’s child-gift her good; + Another tears the heart-strings from her babe, + And feeds, for good, the sacred crocodile. + + The good lies in the thought of pleasing God: + The consciousness that God is pleased with us, + A pleasure yields, and good might there be sought + For pleasure’s sake, and prove a selfish aim; + But moral selfishness a pain imparts, + And good, for pleasure sought, defeats the search. + + The good is sought, because it pleases God, + Not with the doer, but with what is done. + Good has its origin in th’ idea God, + And what He loves; but to continue good + It must retain approval in the act, + And not transfer it to the agent’s self. + The consciousness that God approves a deed, + Makes Man approve, and thus his mind is brought + In correlation with the Mind Divine. + The man who does an alms, if done to gain + God’s favor for himself, feels selfish pain; + But if because the act, not he, will please, + He finds the pleasure. Man, as time rolls on, + Finds general laws that please or displease God, + And ranging, under these, subordinates + Amenable to them and not to God, + The moral quality of lesser deeds + He reckons by these laws, nor does ascend + To God, that gives their moral quality. + Jouffroy, in Order, placed the Abstract Good, + And paused a step below the real truth, + The idea God, whence Order emanates. + + Thus Man, progressing, good withdraws from God + And seems an independent entity, + And man denominates it, Abstract Good. + He can attain the Abstract but in part; + When mind is freed from flesh, he may attain + To its full grandeur. Here, at most, he grasps + A faint outline, and fits it on concrete. + No concept occupies one act of mind, + But opening the lettered label, he + May count the attributes, and by an act + Complex, of memory and cognition, gain + Some idea of his Abstract. Thus of “Man,” + One act can only cognize M-A-N, + But opening, he finds the attributes, + As “mammal,” “biped,” “vertebrate.” This act + Is complex, and he cannot unitize, + Save by the bundle of a word. You’ve said + It answers all the purposes of life, + Then why seek more? lest speculation vain + Point out dim realms, where Man can never tread, + These baffling thoughts are given, as peacocks’ feet, + To Man’s fond pride. The simplest avenue + Of thought, pursued, will reach absurdity, + To comprehension finite. + Even the truth + Of numbers you presume to doubt. Two balls, + You claim, can ne’er be two unless alike. + You mingle quantity and number, foolishly, + As if a ball the size of Earth, and one, + A tiny mustard-seed, would not be two! + You deem all Mathematics wide at fault, + Because Man’s powers to illustrate are weak. + Earth has oft seen a pure right angle drawn, + Because Man’s sight could not detect a flaw; + And if to his discernment perfect made, + He must admit its perfect form. If life, + In every intricate demand, finds truth, + Why seek to overturn by sophistry? + You see and know Achilles far beyond + The tortoise, yet the super-wise must prove + That he can never pass the creeping thing, + Although his speed a hundred times as swift! + When Man commences, he may find a doubt + In everything; his life, his neighbor’s life, + The outside world, may all be but a myth; + Then let him so believe, but let him act + Consistently; but does the skeptic so? + He crams all Nature in his little mind, + Yet how he cringes to her slightest law! + He flees the rain, and wards the cold, or fears + The lightning’s glittering blow. He doubts his frame + Can work by mechanism so absurd, + Yet will not for a day refrain from food! + + When Man compares his body and his mind, + And tries the power of each, he magnifies + The mind to Deity, and yet how small + Compared with what it has to learn! The more + Man knows, the more he finds he does not know; + And as a traveller toiling up the hill, + Each upward step reveals a wider view + Of fields of thought sublime he dares not hope + To ever reach in life; and wearily he sits + Him down upon the mountain-side, so far + Beneath its untrod top, and recklessly + Doubts everything, because beyond his grasp. + + All skeptic reasoning ends, as did your own, + No fruit but blind bewilderment of thought! + And none but fools will e’er believe sincere + The faith that doubts alone by theory, + And yet approves by practice. Such is yours; + The stern necessities of life demand + A practical belief, and such is given; + And still, forsooth, because your narrow mind + Cannot contain the Truth in perfect form, + You dare deny it does exist. But few + Of skeptic minds are let to live on Earth, + And even these made instruments of good, + In calling forth defenders of the Truth, + Who add their strength to its Eternal Walls. + Then here behold God’s wisdom manifest! + Amid the care of countless greater orbs, + He watches Earth, and knows its smallest thing. + While Man, as individual, is free, + Collective Man is being surely led + Towards an end, but when it will be reached, + God knows alone. Then Man will be removed + Into a higher or a lower sphere, + As he has worthy proved. With Man ’twill be + A great event; his awful Judgment-day! + When from those far-off realms, the Son shall come + With Angel retinue, and through the worlds, + Shall lead their solemn flight, to where we stand; + And as the trump shall peal its clarion tones, + And beat away Earth’s gauze of atmosphere, + The millions living, and the billions dead, + Will leave the sod, and “caught up in the air,” + Shall stand before the Throne, to hear their doom. + Then, faces pale with fear, and trembling limbs, + Will be on every side, as on the air + They rest, with nothing solid ’neath their feet; + And see dismantled Earth burst into flames, + And reel along its track, a globe of fire, + The volumed smoke, a dusky envelope; + Its revolutions wrapping pliant flames, + In scarlet girdles, round its bulging waist, + And hurling streams of centrifugal sparks, + In broad red tangents, from the burning orb. + Upon the conflagration Man will gaze, + With shuddering horror; ’tis his only home, + The scene of all his fame, the source of wealth, + For which he toiled so wearily. All gone! + He would not touch a mountain of pure gold, + For ’twould be useless now! Poor, pauper Man, + Without his money, chiefest aim of life, + Stands homeless ’mid a Universe, to learn + If God will be his Father, or his Foe! + And from the blackness underneath, the swarms + Of Evil ones are thronged, their hideous forms + Half shown in lurid light, as here and there + They flit, like sharks, expectant of their prey. + Then comes the closing scene. The sentence passed, + The righteous breaking forth to joyous praise, + Shall thread Creation’s wondrous maze of life, + And with their Leader, sweep towards yon Heaven; + While down the black abyss, with cries of woe + That make the darkness tremble, the condemned + Are dragged, into its gloom,--and all is o’er-- + Earth’s ashes float in scattered clouds through space-- + To Man the grandest era of all Time, + To God, completion of Salvation’s scheme! + + But Man deems Judgment too far off for thought, + Nor will prepare for such a distant fate; + Yet there is something, far more sure than aught + Uncertain life can offer; its decision, too, + Is just as final as the Judgment doom; + And still ’tis oftenest farthest from the thought. + ’Tis Death, the welcome or unwelcome guest + Of every man, and yet how few prepare + For its approach! They give all else a care; + Wealth, honor, fame, get all their time, + While certain Death’s forgotten, till disease + Gives warning; then with hasty penitence, + The knees are worn, the heart’s thick rubbish cleared; + But oft too late; the heart will not be cleared, + The stubborn knees will not consent to bend, + The house is set in order, while the guest, + In sable robes, stands at the throbbing door. + + And now to close thy lesson, look through this! + He gave to me a strangely fashioned glass, + Through which, when I had looked to Earth, I saw + A long black wall, that towered immensely high, + So none might see beyond. Before its length, + Mankind were ranged, all weaving busily; + The young and old, the maiden and the man; + The infant hands unconscious plied the thread, + The aged with a feeble, listless move. + They wove the warp of Life, and drew its thread + From o’er the wall; none knew how far its end + Was off, nor when ’twould reach the busy hand, + Nor did they care, in aught by action shown, + But bending o’er their work, without a glance + Towards the thread, that still so smoothly ran, + They threw the shuttle back and forth again, + Till suddenly the ravelled end appeared, + Fell from the wall, and to the shuttle crept; + And then the weaver laid his work aside, + With folded hands, was wrapped within his warp, + To wait the Master’s sentence on his task. + I saw the thread, in passing through their hands, + Received the various colors, from their touch, + And tinged the different patterns that they wove. + And oh! how different in design! Some wove + A spotless fabric, whose pure simple plan + Was always ready for the ending thread; + Come when it would, no part was incomplete; + But what was done, could bear th’ Inspector’s eye. + And others wove a dark and dingy rag, + That bore no pattern, save its filthiness; + Fit garment for the fool who weaves for flames! + Some wove the great red woof of war, + With clashing swords, and crossing bayonets, + With ghastly bones, and famished widows’ homes, + With all the grim machinery of Death, + To gain a paltry crown, or curule chair; + Perchance, before the crown or chair is reached, + The thread gives out, the work is incomplete, + And in the gory cloak his hands have wrought, + With all its stains unwashed, the hero sleeps. + Some shuttles shape the gilded temple, Fame, + And count on thread to weave its topmost dome; + But ere the lowest pinnacle is touched, + The brittle filament is snapped. Some weave + The bema, with its loud applause; and some + The gaudy chaplet of the bacchanal, + And others sweated bays of honest toil. + But all the fabrics bear the yellow stain + Of gold, o’er which the sinner and the saint + Unseemly strive, and he seems happiest + Whose work is yellowest. + Along the wall, + “A fountain filled with blood,” plays constantly, + Where man may cleanse the fabric as he weaves; + Yet few avail themselves; the waters flow, + While Man works on, without regard to stains, + Till thread worn thin arouses him to fear, + Or breaks before the damning dyes are cleansed. + + And down the line I ran my anxious eyes, + To find a weaver I might recognize, + And saw, at last, a form by mirrors known. + Oh! ’twas a shameful texture that I wove, + So dark its hue, so little saving white, + Such seldom bathing in the fountain stream, + I could not look, but bowed my blushing face, + And like the publican of old, cried out, + “Be merciful to me a sinner!” + “Rise!” + The Angel said, “And worship God alone, + Return to Earth, enjoy an humble faith, + Whose simple trust shall make thee happier + Than all the grandeur of philosophy. + Should doubts arise, remember, God’s designs + Above a finite comprehension stand, + And finite doubts, about the Infinite, + Assume absurdity’s intensest form. + Man, from the stand-point of the Present, looks, + And disappointed, bitterly complains + Of what would move his deepest gratitude, + Could he the issue of the morrow know. + God sees the future, and in kindness deals + To every man his complement of good. + Remember then the weakness of thy mind, + Nor doubt because thou canst not understand. + To gather scattered jewels thou must kneel; + So on thy knees seek truth, and thou shalt find; + The nearer Earth thy face, the nearer Heaven + Thy heart. And now farewell!” + I sprang to clasp + His hand in gratitude, but with a wave + Of parting benediction, he was gone! + Then in an instant, like an aerolite, + With naught to bear me up, I fell to Earth, + Swifter and swifter, with increasing speed! + Now bursting through a sunlit bank of cloud, + And clutching, vainly, at the yielding mist, + Or through a cradling storm, with thunder charged, + Down through the open air, whose parted breath + Hissed death into my ears, while all below + Seemed rushing up to meet and mangle me. + I shrieked aloud, “Oh save me!”-- + And awoke. + The day was o’er, and night had drawn her shades; + The twinkling eyes of Heaven shone through the leaves, + And lit the tiny rain-globes on the grass; + The cloud had passed, and on th’ horizon’s verge, + A monster firefly, with shimmering flash, + It slowly crawled behind the curve of death. + And evening’s silence deeper seemed than noon’s, + For not a sound disturbed the hush of night, + Save katydids, with quavering monotones, + Returning contradictions from the trees. + All drenched and chilled, with trembling limbs I rose, + And homeward bent my steps; and pondering + Upon my dream, this moral from it drew: + Man cannot judge the Eternal Mind by his, + But must accept the mysteries of Life, + As purposes Divine, with perfect ends. + And in our darkest clouds, God’s Angels stand, + To work Man’s present and eternal good. + + + + + THE VILLAGE ON THE TAR + +DEDICATED TO PETTIGREW COUNCIL NO 1. F. OF T. + + + A drunkard in a distant town lay dying on his bed, + There was lack of woman’s gentle touch about his fevered head, + But a comrade stood beside him, and wiped the foam away, + That bubbled through his frothy lips, to hear what he might say. + The poor inebriate faltered, as he caught that comrade’s eye, + And he said, “’Tis hard, far, far from home ’mid strangers thus to die. + Take a message and a token to my friends away so far, + For Louisburg’s my native place, the village on the Tar. + + “Tell my brothers and companions, should they ever wish to know + The story of the fallen, ah! the fallen one so low, + That we drank the whole night deeply, and when at last ’twas o’er, + Full many a form lay beastly drunk along the barroom floor. + And there were ’mid those wretches some who had long served sin, + Their bloated features telling well what faithful slaves they’d been; + And some were young and had not on the Hell-path entered far-- + And one was from the village, the village on the Tar. + + “Tell my mother that her other sons may still some comfort prove, + But I, in even childhood, would scorn that mother’s love; + And when she called the children to lift up the evening prayer, + One form was always missing, there was e’er one vacant chair, + For my father was a drunkard, and even as a child + He taught my little feet to tread the road to ruin wild; + And when he died and left us to dispute about his will, + I let them take whate’er they would, but kept my father’s ‘still,’ + And with sottish love I used it till its venomed ‘worm’ did gnaw + My soul, my mind, my very life, in the village on the Taw.[A] + + “Tell my sister oft to weep for me with sad and drooping head, + When she sees the wine flow freely, that poison ruby red, + And to turn her back upon it, with deep and burning shame, + For her brother fell before it and disgraced the fam’ly name. + And if a drunkard seeks her love, oh! tell her, for my sake, + To shun the loathsome creature, as she would a deadly snake, + And have the old ‘still’ torn away, its fragments scattered far, + For the honor of the village, the village on the Tar. + + “There’s another, not a sister; in the merry days of old, + You’d have known her by the dark blue eye, and hair of wavy gold; + Too gentle e’er to chide me, too devoted e’er to hate, + She loved me, though oft warned by all to shun the dreaded fate. + Tell her the last night of my life--for ere the morning dawn, + My body will be tenantless, my clay-chained spirit gone-- + I dreamed I stood beside her, and in those lovely blue depths saw + The merry light that cheered me, in the village on the Taw.[A] + + “I saw the old Tar hurrying on its bubbles to the sea, + As men on life’s waves e’er are swept towards eternity; + And the rippling waters mingled with the warbling of the birds, + Returned soft silvery echoes to my deep impassioned words; + And in those listening ears I poured the sweet tho’ time-worn story, + While swimming were those love-lit eyes, in all their tear-pearled glory; + And her little hand was closely pressed in mine so brown and braw, + Ah! I no more shall meet her, in the village on the Taw.”[A] + + He ceased to speak, and through his frame there ran a shiver slight, + His blood-shot eyes rolled inward and revealed their ghastly white, + His swollen tongue protruded, o’er his face a pallor spread, + His comrade touched his pulse--’twas still--and he was with the dead. + The moon from her pavilion, in the blue-draped fleecy cloud, + Through the window o’er the corpse had thrown her pale but ghostly shroud, + The same moon that gazing upon that couch of straw. + Was bathing in a silver flood the village on the Taw.[A] + +[A] The Indian name of this river was _Taw_.--PUBLISHER. + + + + + REQUIESCAM + + + Oh! give me a grave in a lone, gloomy dell, + By the side of a deep, swift creek, + Where the ripples run like a tinkling bell, + Through the grassy nooks, where love so well + The minnows to play hide and seek! + + Where in summer the thick twining foliage weaves + A green, arching roof upon high, + And the rain-drops fall from the dripping eaves, + Like tears of grief from the weeping leaves + On the face upturned to the sky! + + Where the silence frightens the birds away, + And all is still, dreary and weird, + Except, perchance at the close of day, + The bittern’s boom or the crane’s hoarse bray, + Floating over the swamp, is heard. + + Where the dusky wolf and the antlered deer + Ever shun the dark, haunted ground; + Where the crouching panther ventures near, + His tawny coat all bristling with fear, + At the sight of the low, red mound. + + Where at twilight gray, the lone whippoorwill + May perch on the stake at my head, + And with its unearthly, tremulous trill + The dreary gloom of the whole place fill + With a requiem over the dead. + + Where the greater the ruin in earth’s damp mold, + The greater the contrast will prove, + When the weary wings of my spirit I fold, + In heaven, and swell with a bright harp of gold, + The grand pealing anthem of love. + + _February 9th, 1867_ + + + + + LINES TO AN ANALYTICAL GEOMETRY + + KNOWN TO THE STUDENTS AS “MISS ANNIE” + + WRITTEN AT THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA, 1866 + + + At “Elysium” chum and I were sitting, + Across our vision memories flitting, + Talking, smoking, often spitting + On the hearth, not on the floor; + When suddenly we heard a spluttering, + As of book leaves madly flutt’ring, + Some one there seemed slowly mutt’ring, + At the bookcase, not the door. + + Wildly springing to my feet + (Chum with fright seemed tied t’ his seat), + Dreading, fearing I should meet + What so like a ghost had spoken-- + Fellow members, if you’re able + To believe what seemed a fable, + I saw “Miss Annie” on the table, + With rage and anger almost choking. + + Then without a bow or bend, + Sitting up upon one end, + Without preface thus began-- + While we both in wonder stared: + “O ye worthless lazy scamps! + Talk about your midnight lamps, + While I’m in the bookcase crampt, + To what can such Sophs be compared? + + “Here you’ll sit and smoke and talk, + To-morrow morn to black-board walk, + Seize your ‘ruler’ and your chalk, + Then I hope get badly ‘rushed.’ + Oh! the present generation, + Such neglect to education, + Blood and scissors! thunderation!” + She was so mad the tears forth gushed. + + Chum and I had heard enough + To put us both in quite a huff, + So just to stop her noisome stuff + I sprang and seized her by the collar. + George jumped up and grabbed the poker, + Shouted, “Edwin, try to choke her! + We’ll stop her mouth, a darned old croaker, + Squeeze her tight and make her ‘holloa.’” + + To the fire we held her near, + Still she showed no signs of fear. + “Shall the red coals be your bier?” + She shook her leaves and fluttered, “No.” + Now my face with anger flushes, + Covered first with scarlet blushes, + I cried, “Will you again e’er ‘rush’ us?” + Quoth Miss Annie, “Evermore.” + + “Book or fiend,” I cried, up starting, + “Be that word our sign of parting.” + Then I, in my vengeance darting, + Hurled her in the embers red. + She slightly quivered, slowly burned; + From the sickening sight I turned, + Yet from her this lesson learned, + Prepare before you go to bed. + + + + + LINES TO COUSINS C. AND E. + + ON THE BIRTH OF THEIR LITTLE DAUGHTER + + + The marriage over, from the train + Of watching seraphs, one long strain + Of gratulation broke. + And then were still the rustling wings, + And fingers hushed the throbbing strings, + While thus an angel spoke: + + “Who’ll go to earth to bless this pair + With angel child, beneath their care + Be trained for bliss or woe?” + He ceased, and from the throng sprang three, + Faith, Love, and spotless Purity. + These knelt, and said “We’ll go.” + + Dear cousins, to you these are sent, + Three spirits in one being blent. + It is a jewel rare. + Oh! keep her pure as when first given, + Guide her faith from Earth to Heaven, + Guard her love with care. + + _May, 1867._ + + + + + THE DEVIL OUTDONE; + + OR, + + THE GUARD OF THE SULPHUR LAKE + + +To her who sent me the Valentine with the cutting irony, “Don’t I look +pretty in church?” these lines are respectfully inscribed. Not knowing +her name, I will call her “Taters,” as she drew her elegant and tasty +simile from that vegetable. + + The Devil was sitting one morning below, + And he seemed much perplexed as to what he must do, + For his dark brows would knit, and he’d stamp on the ground, + And flap his great wings till floating around + Were the ashes and feathers. + At last with an air + Of resolve he threw himself back in his chair, + Lit a brimstone cigar, and touched a small bell. + An imp appeared, bowed, and on his face fell. + “Cloven-foot,” said the D----, “what’s the news from the fire?” + “My liege, the great ape has ceased to inspire + The victims with terror; they fear him no more, + And continually crawl from the flames to the shore.” + “Well, Cloven-foot, I had most certainly thought + When from Africa’s wilds that baboon you brought, + He’d prove such a guard for the great Sulphur Lake + The wretches would ne’er cease before him to quake. + Now go up to earth, and search till you find + Something uglier far, then quick seize and bind + And bring it to me; and if it beats the baboon + I’ll reward you. Be sure to return just as soon + As ’tis possible, and above all things to choose + An object whose countenance never will lose + Its hideous novelty.” The imp bowed and withdrew, + And swiftly to earth on his errand he flew; + But in vain did he search where the gorillas roam, + Or the jungles of Bengal, the fierce tiger’s home. + In vain throughout Europe he searched every place; + Nowhere could he find the requisite face. + Frustrated and weary, with deep despair frantic, + He was skimming the waves of the tossing Atlantic. + A few pinion strokes, and he stood on the shore + Of the New World, and through it began to explore. + But all was in vain, till he chanced to alight + In a sweet little village, one smiling morn bright. + Disguising himself, he attended the church, + Not hoping to find the object of search, + But just for the fun. + As he stood with the throng + That were watching the College girls marching along, + He caught a slight glimpse of Miss “Tater’s” sweet face; + He sprang to her side, clasped her in embrace, + And as he plunged downward he said to himself, + “Here’s one will compete with the African elf.” + He soon furled his wing on the Plutonian shore, + And to his dark ruler his fair burden bore. + As the Valentine sender came into sight + The Devil himself started back with affright. + “Whew! whew!” whistled he, “she’ll do, I declare! + Go bring the baboon, and let them compare.” + The imp disappeared, then returned with the ape, + A creature most frightful in feature and shape. + His head was oblong and perfectly bald, + Running back from his eyes--no forehead at all; + His eyeballs were white, their sockets deep red; + His long, glistening teeth strung with human-flesh shred, + The gore of his victims from his fingers’ ends flowed; + And round his lank limbs candescent chains glowed, + In front of Miss “Taters” this creature was led; + He gave a look, yelled, and fainted stone dead. + “By my tongs,” quoth the Devil, “she’s rather too hard + For the old fellow; she’ll make a capital guard. + Take her down to the fire.” The imp led the way + And far down they went from the clear light of day, + Down, down, till the air was all smoky and red, + Till the tumult of hell seemed bursting her head; + Down, down, till the piteous wails and the moans + Of the tortured but echoed the jeers and the groans + Of the fiends. Down, down, till they came to the lake + That scorches and scalds, but never will slake + The thirst of its victims. Far out on its breast + It would heave them anon on the red foaming crest + Of a billow, then plunge them far deeper beneath + Its boiling bosom, in torture to seethe. + Along the hot shore the poor creatures would crawl, + To pant and to rest from their terrible thrall. + From their bodies all smoking the lava would stream, + While the shriveled flesh peeled from each quiv’ring limb, + And their heart-piercing shrieks rose higher and higher, + As the tongue of each wave licked them back in the fire. + But as soon as Miss “Taters” had come where they were + Every noise was hushed, not a sound could you hear. + ’Twas a wonder indeed, and the wonder increased, + When the billows of crimson their torture surge ceased. + When the imp had examined more closely, he found + The victims had fainted, the fire gone down. + He hurried her back to his master and said, + “The fires are out, and the wretches are dead.” + “What, the fires extinguished! those fires of old! + Take her back! I begin e’en myself to feel cold! + She’ll ruin us all with her terrible face; + She’s rather hard-favored for even this place.” + + _April, 1867._ + + + + + THE SUNFLOWER + + LINES SUGGESTED BY OBSERVING GEN. PETTIGREW’S NAME OMITTED IN MRS. + DOWNING’S “MEMORIAL FLOWERS” AND IN THE “SOUTHERN BOUQUET” + + + When poets cull memorial flowers, + With which our martyrs’ graves to strew, + They choose no one in Nature’s bowers + For Pettigrew. + + Yet there is one, and only one, + Which truly represents his name; + A flower that revels in the sun, + And drinks his flame. + + A flower that opens when, all red, + The sun hath kissed the eastern skies; + But westward turned, it droops its head + And proudly dies. + + Thus when the sun of victory sheared + Its gory way o’er clouds of war, + This flower’s tow’ring crest appeared + A beacon star. + + And in its gorgeous, glorious rays, + This flower basked, and only bowed + When coming conquest’s bloody haze + That sun did shroud. + + Crushed flower, with thy broken stem, + I’ll keep thee near to typify + The fallen form; the hero’s fame + Can never die. + + _June 19th, 1867._ + + + + + AN ELEGY + +WRITTEN ON THE ROTUNDA STEPS, UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, 1868 + + + The bell the knell of evening lecture tolls, + The thronging students pour from every door; + The tutor gathers up his notes and rolls, + And homeward wends his weary way once more. + + The noisy crowd is gone, there is a pause, + And hushed is all the busy hum and whirl, + Save where from yonder room breaks loud applause + That welcomes some professor’s parting “curl.” + + Save that from yonder plain, the lower lawn, + Some base-ball novice makes harsh rhyms to _psalm_, + Because a veteran, with his hands of horn, + Has “pitched” too “hot” a ball for his soft palm. + + Beneath those balconies, along those rows, + Where sinks the wall in many a jail-like cell, + Each wrapped in silence now and in repose, + The minstrels of the “Calathump” do dwell. + + The whispered call of evil-masking night, + The signal whistle of the well-known crew, + The bumping bang of “blowers” beat with might, + Will often rouse the “Nippers of Peru.” + + For them in vain for hours their hearts will burn, + While busy housewives tremble at their noise, + And frightened children to their fathers turn, + Too badly scared to think of play or toys. + + Oft has th’ rotunda echoed to their songs, + In dulcet strains that on the still air broke; + Oft has the lawn resounded with their gongs, + That roared and rattled ’neath their sturdy stroke. + + Let not their victims mock th’ infernal din, + Coal-scuttle drums, and clarion paper trump; + But let them hear with a sardonic “grin,” + The hideous clamor of a “Calathump.” + + The boast of Mozart, or Beethoven’s pride, + The sweetest notes Von Weber ever gave, + Alike would prove harsh dissonance beside + The gushing concord of one college stave. + + To-night upon their pillows will be laid + Heads that are pregnant with some secret plan; + Hands that a “poker” often may have swayed, + Or waked to ecstasy an old tin pan. + + In vain grave study holds before their gaze + Her ample page and honor’s glittering roll; + The fire of “frolic” in their bosom plays, + And warms the devilish current of their soul. + + Full many a mind that might have nations hurled + About as toys, has hid its talents rare; + And many a voice that might have moved a world, + Has cracked in shoutings on the midnight air. + + Some village Hampden here by night may bawl, + Some unknown Milton, but by no means mute; + Some David that may soothe a savage Saul, + As yet entirely guiltless of a lute. + + The applause of gaping urchins to command, + The darkies’ laughter at their quaint disguise, + A few short words from some one to the band, + This is their sole reward, their hard-earned prize. + + But who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, + Would start to nip with dry and husky throttle? + Whene’er they march along the Devil’s way, + They take his own peculiar seal, the bottle. + + Amid the madding crowd that gathers thick, + A moving pandemonium they stray, + And down those much frequented walks of brick + They hold the noisy tenor of their way. + + + THE EPIGRAM + + Here go at last, all yelling to the town, + A band of youths to Judson’s too well known; + Fair science ever met their darkest frown, + And foul intemperance marked them for her own. + + Small is their bounty, but “a drink” they chime, + As round the crowded counter many jam; + Each gives to Judson (all he has) a dime, + Each gets from him (’tis all he wants) a dram. + + _January, 1868._ + + + + + FIRE EYES + + + Hast thou on summer’s eve ere marked + The storm on cloud wings soaring high, + And spreading far his pinions black, + Across the blue good-natured sky? + And hast thou seen from ’neath his brow + The lightning’s eye gleam fiercely bright, + As if to pierce a thousand foes + With daggers of his living light? + As flash the lightnings in the skies, + So gleam, when angry, “Fire Eyes.” + + Hast thou on autumn eve e’er seen + The sun just nestling on his pillow, + While sapphire clouds were silver-fringed, + As seafoam crests the surging billow? + And hast thou seen the golden gaze + The sun bestows on Nature fair, + That dyes the gorgeous landscape o’er + And almost melts the amber air? + As beams the sun on autumn skies + So smile, when pleased, bright “Fire Eyes.” + + + + + MY DARLING’S JESSAMINE + + + ’Twas only a sprig of white jessamine, + That came in a letter she wrote; + But I value it more than the costliest vine + Whose tendrils o’er marble-carved trellis-work twine: + _’Twas worn at my darling one’s throat_. + + A throat that encages the nightingale’s trill, + And sweetens each silvery note, + And I think as I hear, in a rapturous thrill, + Her voice, whose volume can heaven’s dome fill, + That the _angels have lent her a throat_. + + More sweet than exotics that Fashion dupes wear + As through the gay ballroom they float! + In the leaves of my Bible I laid it with care, + More _sacredly dear_ than a _buried friend’s hair_ + Since worn at my darling one’s throat! + + _July, 1870._ + + + + + THE PARTING SHIP + + + In pensive mood I stood upon the quay, + Where busy Commerce plied her energy; + Where loading vessels hung their sails at rest, + And rose and fell, upon the water’s breast. + Where busy little tugs with hissing steam + Buried their noses in the foaming stream. + Near by, a steamer in a paneled wharf + Chafed at her chains and panted to be off. + A strange, mysterious ship, no pennon bold + Her nation or her destination told; + No crew was seen, no farewell song was sung, + No parting loved ones to each other clung; + No wife was weeping on her husband’s neck, + No mother blessed her wayward boy on deck. + A ceaseless throng pressed through the cabin door, + As if they longed to leave their native shore; + No backward glance, no tearful farewell view, + And no one seemed to think home worth adieu. + At last the bell was rung, the plank was drawn, + And with a shivering sigh, the ship was gone. + Then as I marked her curving track of foam, + I wondered in what waters she would roam; + I thought of those on board, the reckless air + Of their departure, and I breathed a prayer. + A red-haired man stood turning up a wheel, + That wound a clanking chain upon a reel; + I laid a coin upon his brawny hand, + And asked him, “Who thus leave their native land?” + He leaned upon his wheel and closed one eye, + As if the lid were burdened with a sty; + Then with a laugh he answered, “By the devil’s spleen and liver, + It’s on’y a Fulton ferry-boat a’gwine a’gross East River.” + + + + + TO M----, FROM E---- + + WRITTEN ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BIBLE + + + One year of sweetest love intense! + One year of mutual confidence! + One year of gazing into eyes, + In which the love-light never dies! + One year of clasping hands, that thrill + With throbbing love from life’s red rill + One year of clouds, whose transient shade + The after glory brighter made! + One year of doubts, whose fleeting rust + Could not corrode our links of trust! + One year of prayer, whose pleading tone + Has for _each other_ sued the Throne! + One year _together_--may it prove + Prophetic of our earthly love! + One year _each other’s_--may it be + A type of our _eternity_! + + _Sunday, May, 1871._ + + + + + UNDER THE PINES + +“TELL THEM TO BURY ME UNDER THE PINES AT HOME.” FROM “SEA GIFT.” + + + I would not rest in the moldering tomb + Of the grim church-yard, where the ivy twines, + But make me a grave in the forest’s gloom, + Where the breezes wave, like a soldier’s plume, + Each dark-green bough of the dear old pines; + + Where the lights and shadows softly merge, + And the sun-flakes sift through the netted vines; + Where the sea winds, sad with the sob of the surge, + From the harp-leaves sweep a solemn dirge + For the dead beneath the sighing pines. + + When the winter’s icy fingers sow + The mound with jewels till it shines, + And cowled in hoods of glistening snow, + Like white-veiled sisters bending low, + Bow, sorrowing, the silent pines. + + While others fought for cities proud, + For fertile plains and wealth of mines, + I breathed the sulph’rous battle cloud, + I bared my breast, and took my shroud + For the land where wave the grand old pines. + + Though comrades sigh and loved ones weep + For the form shot down in the battle lines, + In my grave of blood I gladly sleep, + If the life I gave will help to keep + The Vandal’s foot from the Land of Pines. + + * * * * * + + The Vandal’s foot hath pressed our sod, + His heel hath crushed our sacred shrines; + And, bowing ’neath the chastening rod, + We lift our hearts and hands to God, + And cry: “Oh! save our Land of Pines!” + + + + + THE LAST LOOK + + TO MARY + + + Do not fasten the lid of the coffin down yet; + Let me have a long look at the face of my pet. + Please all quit the chamber and pull to the door, + And leave me alone with my darling once more. + + Is this little Ethel, so cold, and so still! + Beat, beat, breaking heart, ’gainst God’s mystic will, + Remember, O Christ, thou didst dread thine own cup, + And while I drink mine, let thine arm bear me up. + + But the moments are fleeting: I must stamp on my brain, + Each dear little feature, for never again + Can I touch her; and only God measures how much + Affection a mother conveys by her touch. + + Oh! dear little head, oh! dear little hair, + So silken, so golden, so soft, and so fair, + Will I never more smooth it? Oh! help me, my God, + To bear this worst stroke of the chastening rod. + + Those bright little eyes that used to feign sleep, + Or sparkle so merrily, playing at peep, + Closed forever! And yet they seemed closed with a sigh, + As if for our sake she regretted to die. + + And that dear little _mouth_, once so warm and so soft, + Always willing to kiss you, no matter how oft, + Cold and rigid, without the least tremor of breath, + How could you claim _Ethel_, O pitiless death! + + Her hands! No, ’twill kill me to think how they wove + Through my daily existence a tissue of love. + Each finger’s a print upon memory’s page, + That will brighten, thank God! and not dim with my age. + + Sick or well, they were ready at every request + To amuse us: sweet hands! they deserve a sweet rest. + Their last little trick was to wipe “Bopeep’s” eye, + Their last little gesture, to wave us good-bye. + + Little feet! little feet, how dark the heart’s gloom, + Where your patter is hushed in that desolate room! + For oh! ’twas a sight sweet beyond all compare, + To see little “Frisky” rock back in her chair. + + * * * * * + + O Father! have mercy, and grant me thy grace + To see, through this frown, the smile on thy face; + To feel that this sorrow is sent for the best, + And to learn from my darling a lesson of rest. + + _February 16th, 1875._ + + + + +LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF AN UNKNOWN FRIEND + + + We’ve never met; I’ve never pressed your hand, + Nor caught the light of Friendship in your eyes; + Yet bound by grief, between two graves we stand, + And mingle tears, and hear each other’s sighs. + + The same dark wings have taken from each hearth + The brightest jewel of the circle there, + And poor Faith stumbles at the mound of earth, + And feebly yields her place to wan Despair. + + The same dear Christ that took our little one, + And laid her precious head upon His breast, + In tender love called home your darling son + To enter early his eternal rest. + + But who could stand beside the open tomb, + And hear the clods fall on the coffin lid, + And see deep underneath the earthen gloom, + The dearest love of life forever hid? + + Could we not hear the grave’s red lips proclaim, + “I am the Resurrection and the Life,” + And realize that Death in Jesus’ name + Is only rest from labor, pain, and strife? + + ’Tis hard to feel assured our sainted dead + Are happy _there_, as we could make them here; + We love them so we give them up with dread, + And lay them in Christ’s arms with doubt and fear. + + Oh! for a faith that sees in all God sends + The kindness of a father to his son; + That prays, in every trial--if it ends + In joy or grief, “Thy will, O Lord, be done.” + + Beneath the same dark shadow let us kneel, + And lift our broken hearts in prayer to God + That while He chastens, He will help us feel + The wisdom of His purpose in the rod. + + We are not strangers now; from heart to heart + The electric chords of mutual sorrow thrill. + And clasping hands across the miles apart, + We stand resolved, to “suffer and be still.” + + + + + OUT IN THE RAIN + + + The night is dark and cold, a beating rain + Falls ceaselessly upon the dripping roof; + The dismal wind, with now a fierce, wild shriek, + And now a hollow moan, as if in pain, + Circles the eaves, and bends the tortured trees that wring + Their long, bear hands in the bleak blast. + Within + Our chamber all is bright and warm. The fire + Burns with a ruddy blaze. The shaded lamp + Softens the pictures on the wall, and glows + Upon the flowers in the carpet, till they seem + All fresh and fragrant. Stretched upon the rug, + His collar gleaming in the fire-light, little Pip + Is sleeping on, defiant of the storm without. + The very furniture enjoys the warmth, + And from its sides reflects the cheerful light. + Up in its painted cage, the little bird, + His yellow head beneath his soft, warm wing, + Is hiding. Oh! my God, out in the storm + _Our little yellow head_ is beaten by the rain. + So lonely looks that precious little face + Up at the cold, dark coffin’s lid above, + In the bleak graveyard’s solitude! + Oh! Ethel darling, do you feel afraid? + Or is Christ with you in your little grave? + When last we gazed upon those lovely eyes + They looked so tranquil, in their last repose, + We knew that Christ’s own tender hand had sealed + Their lids with His eternal peace. + Oh! darling, are you happy up in heaven? + And do the angels part that golden hair + As tenderly as we? O Saviour dear, + Thou knowest childhood’s tenderness. Amid + The care of countless worlds, sometimes descend + From thine almighty throne of power, and find + That little yellow head, and lay it on thy breast, + And smooth her brow with thine own pierced hand; + She’ll kiss the wound and try to make it well. + And tell her how we love her memory here; + And let her sometimes see us, that she may + Remember us. O Jesus, we can trust + Her to thy care; and when we lay us down + To rest, beside that lonely, little grave, + Oh! let her meet us with her harp. + God help us both to make that meeting sure! + + + + + THE LILY AND THE DEW-DROP + + + Deep in a cell of darkest green, + Rayless and murky with unbroken gloom, + With downcast head and shrinking, modest mien, + A lily of the valley shed her rare perfume, + Breathed softly, as a sea shell’s murmur, from her bloom + An odor so exquisite, none can tell, + If ’tis an odor or a whispered sigh + That like the dying echoes of a bell + Falls on the raptured sense so dreamily, + The soul swoons in the tearful clasp of memory. + + So when an old man hears a harvest song + He used to sing, or smells the new-mown hay, + A host of saddened recollections throng + The dusty chambers of his heart, and play + Upon the cobwebs there a soft Æolian lay. + + (_Unfinished._) + + + + + LINES, + + WRITTEN AFTER HAVING A HEMORRHAGE FROM THE LUNGS + +Written a short time before his death and handed to his wife with the +request, “Do not open this until I am well, or until my death.” + + + Life bloomed for me as if my path thro’ Eden + Led its flowery way. Success had crowned + In many ways my efforts. No dark strife + With adverse Fate its portent shadows cast + Across the calm blue scope of heaven. + And though + Pride often chafed at plain commercial life, + It was but transient, for ambitious Hope + Kept ever in my view Fame’s gilded dome, + Upon whose highest pinnacle I chose my niche, + For vain conceit had whispered in my ear + That I had Genius to encharm the world, + And I looked forward to the loud applause + Of nations as a simple thing of time. + Of death I thought but as a fright for those + Who have no destiny but dying. Mine + Would come in age, but as a pallid seal + To Honor gained, and Life’s long labors done. + Yet I had felt the breath of Asrael’s wing + When from my youthful head he took my father’s hand, + And from my manhood’s arms my only child, + And down the past a little mound of earth, + Tombed with the darkest sorrow of our hearts, + Still stands, though veiling in the folds of time. + Of heaven I thought but as a distant home, + A place of sweetest rest that I would gain, + When weary of the burden of the world. + Thus gay of thought and bright of hope, I moved + Amid the flowers of my way. + At once, + With scarce a rustle in the rose leaves, came + A shadowy form, and standing silently + Before my pathway, breathed a whispered sigh, + As if it loathed its office to perform; + Then laid Consumption’s ghastly banner on my breast, + Its pale folds crossed with fatal red. + The sky + Grew dark, the rose leaves withered, as the form + Withdrew, still silently; while I, alone + Upon the roadside, kneeled to pray for light. + The stunned surprise of sudden shattered hopes, + The faith of self-appointed destiny, + Still turned my eyes toward the Temple Fame. + Across its gilded dome a spotless cloud + Had drifted, hiding it from view, but lo! + The cloud, unfolding snowy depths, disclosed + The glories of that “House not made with hands,” + And bending from it, so full of tenderness, + I could discern the loved ones “gone before.” + And over all I recognized the Form + Whose brow endured Gabbatha’s shameful crown, + Whose woe distilled itself in trickling blood, + By Cedron’s murmuring wave. + As tenderly + As ever mother touched her babe, He bore + Within His arms a little angel form, + With golden hair and blue expressive eyes, + One dimpled hand lay on His willing cheek, + While He bent down to meet the sweet caress, + The other, with that well-remembered look + She kissed, and threw the kiss to me. + Then down + I bowed my face, and longed to know mine end. + ’Twere very sweet to leave all toil and care + And join the blessed ones beyond the tide; + And still ’twere sweet beyond compare to wait + Till eventide with loved ones here, and share + Their weal or woe. + Then came a flute-like voice + That thrilled the solemn air: + “Pursue thy way, + Yet humbly walk and watch, and if I come + At midnight, or at noon, be ready.” + Thus + I wish to live, life’s aims subserved to God; + And each continued day and hour regard + As special gifts to be improved for Him; + To wear the girdle of the world about my loins + So loosely that a moment will suffice + To break the clasp, and lay it down. + + + THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Angel in the Cloud, by Edwin W. 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