Part 2

There is something in Nature beyond our control, That is tenderly winning the love of each soul; We shall linger no longer in darkness and doubt, When the Beauty within meets the Beauty without. Sweet Spirit of Nature! wherever thou art, O, fold us like children, close, close to thy heart; Till we learn that thy bosom is Truth’s hallowed shrine, And the Soul of the Beautiful is--the Divine.

MARGERY MILLER.

OLD Margery Miller sat alone, One Christmas eve, by her poor hearthstone, Where dimly the fading firelight shone.

Her brow was furrowed with signs of care, Her lips moved gently, as if in prayer-- For O, life’s burden was hard to bear. Poor old Margery Miller! Sitting alone, Unsought, unknown, Her friends, like the birds of summer had flown.

Full eighty summers had swiftly sped, Full eighty winters their snows had shed, With silver-sheen, on her aged head.

One by one had her loved ones died-- One by one had they left her side-- Fading like flowers in their summer pride. Poor old Margery Miller! Sitting alone, Unsought, unknown, Had God forgotten _she_ was his own?

No castle was hers with a spacious lawn; Her poor old hut was the proud man’s scorn; Yet Margery Miller was nobly born.

A brother she had, who once wore a crown, Whose deeds of greatness and high renown From age to age had been handed down. Poor old Margery Miller! Sitting alone, Unsought, unknown, Where was her kingdom, her crown or throne?

Margery Miller, a child of God, Meekly and bravely life’s path had trod, Nor deemed affliction a “chastening rod.”

Her brother, Jesus, who went before, A crown of thorns in his meekness wore, And what, poor soul! could _she_ hope for more? Poor old Margery Miller! Sitting alone, Unsought, unknown, Strange that her heart had not turned to stone!

Ay, there she sat, on that Christmas eve, Seeking some dream of the past to weave, Patiently striving not to grieve.

O, for those long, long eighty years, How had she struggled with doubts and fears, Shedding in secret unnumbered tears! Poor old Margery Miller! Sitting alone, Unsought, unknown, How _could_ she stifle her sad heart’s moan?

Soft on her ear fell the Christmas chimes, Bringing the thought of the dear old times, Like birds that sing of far distant climes.

_Then_ swelled the flood of her pent-up grief-- Swayed like a reed in the tempest brief, Her bowed form shook like an aspen leaf. Poor old Margery Miller! Sitting alone, Unsought, unknown, How heavy the burden of life had grown!

“O God!” she cried, “I am lonely here, Bereft of all that my heart holds dear; Yet Thou dost never refuse to hear.

“O, if the dead were allowed to speak! Could I only look on their faces meek, How it would strengthen my heart so weak!” Poor old Margery Miller! Sitting alone, Unsought, unknown, What was that light which around her shone?

Dim on the hearth burned the embers red, Yet soft and clear, on her silvered head, A light like the sunset glow was shed.

Bright blossoms fell on the cottage floor, “Mother” was whispered, as oft before, And long-lost faces gleamed forth once more. Poor old Margery Miller! No longer alone, Unsought, unknown, How light the burden of life had grown!

She lifted her withered hands on high, And uttered the eager, earnest cry, “God of all mercy! now let me die.

“Beautiful Angels, fair and bright, Holding the _hem_ of your garments white, Let me go forth to the world of light.” Poor old Margery Miller! So earnest grown! Was she left alone? His humble child did the Lord disown?

O, sweet was the sound of the Christmas bell, As its musical changes rose and fell, With a low refrain or a solemn swell.

But sweeter by far was the blesséd strain, That soothed old Margery Miller’s pain, And gave her comfort and peace again. Poor old Margery Miller! In silence alone, Her faith had grown; And now the blossom had brightly blown.

Out of the glory that burned like flame, Calmly a great white angel came-- Softly he whispered her humble name.

“Child of the highest,” he gently said, “Thy toils are ended, thy tears are shed, And life immortal now crowns thy head.” Poor old Margery Miller! No longer alone, Unsought, unknown, God _had not_ forgotten she was his own.

A change o’er her pallid features passed; She felt that her feet were nearing fast The land of safety and peace, at last.

She faintly murmured, “God’s name be blest!” And folding her hands on her dying breast, She calmly sank to her dreamless rest. Poor old Margery Miller! Sitting alone, Without one moan, Her patient spirit at length had flown.

Next morning a stranger found her there, Her pale hands folded as if in prayer, Sitting so still in her old arm-chair.

He spoke--but she answered not again, For, far away from all earthly pain, Her voice was singing a joyful strain. Poor old Margery Miller! Her spirit had flown To the world unknown, Where true hearts _never_ can be alone.

THE LAW OF LIFE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A RESPECTABLE LIE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE RAINBOW BRIDGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

REST THOU IN PEACE.

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

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.

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

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

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

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

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

ANGEL LILY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE ALL IN ALL.

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