Part 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE ANGEL OF HEALING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TRUTH TRIUMPHANT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GOOD IN ALL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JOHN ENDICOTT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE TRIUMPH OF FREEDOM.

REJOICE! O blood-stained Nation, in darkness wandering long, For Freedom is triumphant, and Right hath conquered Wrong. To-day, the glorious birthright the patriot Fathers gave, Makes, through Eternal Justice, a freeman of the slave.

And swift the glorious tidings, which rolls majestic on, Thrills from old Massachusetts to the shores of Oregon. The gray old mountain-echoes shout it loudly to the sea, And the wild winds join the chorus in the “anthem of the free.”

For this, the God of nations sealed this land as sacred soil, And thenceforth made it holy, with blood, and sweat, and toil. For this, the lonely Mayflower spread her white wings to the breeze, And bore the Pilgrim Fathers across the stormy seas.

For this, the blood of patriots baptized old Bunker Hill, And Lexington and Concord made known the _people’s will_. For this, both Saratoga and Yorktown’s fields were won, And Fame’s unfading laurels wreathed the brow of Washington.

For this, your glorious Channing plead on the “weaker side,” And Parker, brave and fearless, sought to stem Oppression’s tide. For this, the lips of Phillips burned with Athenian fire, Till every flaming sentence leapt forth in righteous ire.

And Garrison, the dauntless, declared, “I will be heard!” O thou sturdy, war-worn veteran! well hast thou kept thy word! Thou hast sent the foul Hyena howling fiercely to his den, And thy battle-cry was “Freedom!” till the cannon said, “Amen!”

For this, like royal Cæsar, within the Senate Hall, On the noble head of Sumner did the blows of Slavery fall; For this, that band of heroes, with their Spartan chief, John Brown, As a sacrifice to Freedom, their precious lives laid down.

And for this you bore and suffered, “till forbearance ceased to be A virtue,” and High Heaven called on you to be free. Then, once more, the blood of heroes leaped like fire within each vein, And the long-slumbering Lion rose, and, wrathful, shook his mane.

O! the page of future history shall, with truthful record, tell How you met the fearful issue, how bravely and how well; How you gave uncounted treasure from out your toil-won hoard, And how, as free as water, heroic blood was poured;--

How Grant, with stern persistence, smote the foe-*men day by day; How Sheridan and Sherman urged their victorious way; How Farragut and Porter swept triumphant o’er the sea, And how the gallant Winslow won _his_ glorious victory;--

And alas! how noble Ellsworth fell in his youthful pride, And Winthrop, Baker, Lyon, for Freedom bled and died; And true, brave hearts unnumbered, before the cannon’s breath, On the wild, red sea of slaughter, swept down the tide of death;--

And how, amid the tumult, in every battle pause, Was heard the cry for “Justice to the bondman and his cause.” O! your fathers’ slumbering ashes cried, “Amen!” from out each grave, When your grand old Constitution gave freedom to the slave.

And, as the glorious tidings upon the nation fell, Satan, with all his legions, went howling down to Hell. Of crime and blood no longer could he freely drink his fill, For the curséd demon, Slavery, had best performed his will.

Let words of deep thanksgiving blend with the tears you shed For the hosts of noble martyrs who in Freedom’s cause have bled. Though they fell before the sickle which reaps the battle-plain, Yet, to-day, they know in heaven, that they perished not in vain.

Your nation’s glorious Eagle, with an unfaltering flight, Hath perched at length, in triumph, on Freedom’s loftiest height; The stars upon your banner burn with a fairer flame, And the radiant stripes no longer are emblems of your shame.

The slave, made like his master, “in the image of his God,” Shall bare his back no longer to the oppressor’s rod; His night of pain and anguish, of want and woe, has past, And Freedom’s radiant morning has dawned on him at last.

O thou Recording Angel! turn to that page whereon Is traced, in undimmed brightness, the name of Washington, And, with thy pen immortal, in characters of flame, To stand henceforth and ever, write also Lincoln’s name!

The first hurled back the tyrant, in the country’s hour of need, The last, divinely guided, hath made her free indeed. Let a nation’s grateful tribute to each, alike, be given, While the kingdom, power and glory are ascribed alone to Heaven.

“Ethiopia no longer stretcheth forth her hands” in vain; On the demon of oppression she hath left her servile chain; Then swell the shout of triumph, till the nations hear afar; Three cheers--three cheers for Freedom! Huzzä! Huzzä! Huzzä!

OUR SOLDIERS’ GRAVES.

SONS of the nation to glory restored, Strew with fresh laurels the patriot’s grave-- Heed the libation to Liberty poured-- Honor the blood of the fearless and brave.

When the red bolts of destruction were hurled, Bursting in tempests of fury and flame, Faithful to Freedom, the hope of the world, Swift to the rescue each patriot came.

Breasting the waves of the battle’s wild sea, Facing, unflinching, the cannon’s hot breath, Hail to the brave! who marched fearless and free, Down to the valley and shadow of Death.

Trace it in marble as white as the snows, Chisel in granite the record sublime, Sacred to Freedom--and teaching our foes Lessons of wisdom as lasting as time.

Bright as the stars in the firmament shine, Still may they watch o’er this land from on high, Teaching our hearts, as their names we enshrine, Faithful to Freedom to live and to die.

OUTWARD BOUND.

IT was midnight dark, when I launched my bark On a wild, tempestuous sea; The lightnings flashed, and the white waves dashed Like steeds from the rein set free. ’Twas a fearful night, and no beacon-light O’er the waste of waters shone; On the wide, wide sweep of the angry deep, Alas! I was all alone.

I had left behind the faithful and kind, The gentle and true of heart; O God above! from their clinging love, It was hard, it was hard to part. O, why did I leave such hearts to grieve, And haste from my home away? ’Twas the chosen hour of a mighty power, Whose summons I must obey.

I had heard the call which must come to all, And I felt, by my quickened breath, I must leave that shore to return no more, For the name of that sea was Death. Thus Outward Bound, with a dizzy sound Like waves in my troubled brain, I drifted away like a soul astray, For I felt that to strive was vain.

Like the brooding wing of some grewsome thing, The darkness around me spread; The wild winds roared, and the tempests poured Their fury upon my head. Anon through the night, like serpents bright, The quivering lightnings came, Or an instant coiled where the white waves boiled, To moisten their tongues of flame.

In the giddy whirl, in the greedy swirl, I felt I was sinking fast, When an arm, as white as the opal bright, Was firmly around me cast. And a well-known voice made my heart rejoice-- “Fear not! for the strife is o’er; To your resting-place in my warm embrace, Do I welcome you back once more.”

’Twas my mother dear spake those words of cheer, Whom I met with a glad surprise, For I thought she slept where the willows wept, Till the day when the dead should rise. I had passed away from my form of clay, But not to a distant sphere; Like a troubled dream did the struggle seem, For my spirit still lingered here.

I had weathered the storm, but my mortal form Like a wreck in my presence lay; They said I was dead when my spirit fled, And with weeping they turned away. Then the dearest came, and she sobbed my name; But how could those pale lips speak? She bent o’er my form like a reed in the storm, As she kissed my clay-cold cheek.