+ The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Angel in the Cloud, by Edwin W. Fuller. +

+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!

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.

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,{4}
+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{5}
+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,{6}
+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;{7}
+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;{8}
+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.{9}
+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;{10}
+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.{11}
+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;{12}
+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,{13}
+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;{14}
+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{15}
+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{16}
+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{17}
+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{18}
+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,{19}
+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:{20}
+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,{21}
+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{22}
+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,{23}
+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{24}
+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{25}
+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,{26}
+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{27}
+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!{28}
+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{29}
+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{30}
+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.{31}
+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{32}
+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,{33}
+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.{34}
+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,{35}
+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{36}
+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,{37}
+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;{38}
+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.{39}
+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{40}
+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.{41}
+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{42}
+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{43}
+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.{44}
+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{45}
+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{46}
+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.{47}
+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,{48}
+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;{49}
+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,{50}
+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{51}”;
+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.{52}
+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,{53}
+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{54}
+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.{55}
+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.{56}
+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;{57}
+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{58}
+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{59}
+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{60}
+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,{61}
+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.{62}
+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.{63}
+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,{64}
+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,{65}
+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{66}
+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,{67}
+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{68}
+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{69}
+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,{70}
+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{71}
+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,{72}
+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{73}
+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,{74}
+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{75}
+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{76}
+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;{77}
+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,{78}
+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;{79}
+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!{80}
+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,{81}
+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.{82}
+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;{83}
+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;{84}
+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{85}
+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{86}
+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{87}
+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.{88}
+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{89}
+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.{90}
+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!{91}
+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,{92}
+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.{93}
+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.{94}
+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,{95}
+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;{96}
+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,{97}
+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{98}
+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,{99}
+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{100}
+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,{101}
+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{102}
+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;{103}
+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,{104}
+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,{105}
+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{106}
+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;{107}
+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,{108}
+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,{109}
+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{110}
+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{111}
+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,{112}
+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{113}
+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,{114}
+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{115}
+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,{116}
+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.{117}
+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.{118}
+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{119}
+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;{120}
+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.
+{121} +

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,{122}
+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,{123}’
+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.{124}
+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,{125}
+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]
+

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!{126}
+

+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
+{127} +

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,{128}
+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.{129}
+“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:{130}
+

+“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,{131}
+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{132}
+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.{133}”
+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;{134}
+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.{135}
+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;{136}
+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.{137}
+

+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;{138}
+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.{139}
+

+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;{140}
+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.”
+{141}

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.
+{142}

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.{143}
+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{144}
+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.{145}
+

+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.{146}
+

+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!{147}
+

+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.
+{148}

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?{149}
+

+’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,{150}
+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?{151}
+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{152}
+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.”

O		O
	THE ANGEL +IN THE CLOUD + +BY + +EDWIN W. FULLER PRIVATELY PRINTED +MCMVII
O		O