Part 5

And in and out those Gates of Pearl, there streamed A ceaseless throng of Angels, errand bound. From one came forth a band of choristers, With shining harps, and sweeping out through space, Their long white lines bent gracefully, they sang. Although so far away, that purest air Brought every note exquisite to my ear. ’Twas richly worth life’s toil, to catch one bar Of Heavenly melody. Oh! I would give My pitiful existence, once again To hear the strains that floated to me then, So full, so deep, so ravishingly sweet; Now gentle as a mother’s lullaby, They almost died away, then louder rose, And rolled their volumes through the boundless realms, That trembled with the diapason grand; Until eternal echoes caught the strain, And glory in the highest swelled sublime.

Entranced, I lay with ’wildered half-closed eyes, Till from another gate, another host Marched forth, the armies of the living God. Beneath their thunder-tread all Heaven shook, And at their head the tall Archangel strode. How grandly terrible his mien! His face Lit with a soul that only kneels to Three; The lofty brows drawn slightly to a frown The eyes that beam with vast intelligence, The depths of distance piercing with their glance; The chiselled lips, compressed with stern resolve, Yet marked with lines and curves of tender love, That ever with a sigh Wrath’s vial broke Upon the doomed. His splendid form so tall, That as he paused a moment in the gate His dazzling crest just grazed the silver bell. He wore no arms nor armor, save a sword Without a sheath, that blazed as broad and bright As sunset bars that shear the zenith’s blue-- A sword, that falling flatly on the host Of Xerxes, would have crushed them as we crush A swarm of ants. An edge-stroke on the Earth Would gash the rocky shell to caverned fire. Unfolding wings would shake a continent, He floated down the depths. Behind him came A million foll’wers, counterparts in all, Save presence of command. I wondered not That one should breathe upon the Syrian might, And still the sleeping hearts, four thousand score.

And from Creation’s little corner came The Guardian Angels, bearing in their arms Their charges during life. As laden bees, They flew to Heaven’s hive; and some passed by So closely I their burdens could discern; And though they came from far-off, unseen Earth, The stiffened forms were borne all tenderly. Some bore the dimpled babe, with soft-closed eyes, As if upon its mother’s breast; its hands, Unhardened yet by toil of life, its face Unfurrowed yet by care’s sharp plough; and some The age-bent form, with ghostly silvered hair, And features gaunt in death, that would have seemed A hideous sight, in any light but Heaven’s; Some bore the rich, who made of Mammon friends, Who wore the purple with a stainless soul; Some bore the poor, who mastered poverty, And broke the ashen crust beneath God’s smile; Their work-worn hands now folded peacefully, And passing towards the harp, the weary feet, So often blistered in life’s bitter dust, To tread with kings the golden streets of Heaven; And some the maiden form bore lovingly, So fair, they seemed twin sisters. And I saw, That, passing through the amber air, they caught Its glowing dust upon them, and were changed, The livid to the radiant. Then as they Approached the City, all the walls were thronged, And all the harps were throbbing to be swept. And mid the throng there moved a dazzling Form, The jewels of whose crown were shaped like thorns. He stood to welcome, and the gates unclosed, And passing through them, all the death sealed eyes Were opened, and they lived! And then I knew What happiness could mean. To leave the Earth, With all its torturing pains and ills of flesh; The lingering, long disease, the wasted frame, And, e’en in health, the constant dread of death, That like the sword of Damocles impends, And none may tell its fall. And worse than flesh, The tortures of the mind in fetters bound; Its chafings at its puling impotence, Its longing after things beyond its reach, Its craving after knowledge never given, Its constant discontent with present time, Its looking towards a future, that but breaks To light alone in distance, never near; Its maddening retrospect o’er wasted life, And loss of golden opportunities; Its consciousness of merit none admit, Its sense of gross injustice from the world; The forced reflections on the sway of self, And consequent contempt for all mankind, Or shameful servitude to their regard; The poisoned thorns, that skirt the “Narrow Way”; The sneering laugh, the tongue of calumny, The envious spites and hates ’tween man and man, The doubts that swarm with thought about our soul, That whispers all our labor here is vain, That death is but extinction, Heaven a myth!

To leave all these, and find a perfect life, To know that Heaven is sure eternally, That sickness ne’er again will waste our frame, That death shall never come again. The mind In perfect peace and happiness; the hidden Spread out before its ken; a sweet content Pervading every thought, because “just now” Yields happiness as great as future years; Because Life’s highest end is now attained. The consciousness of merit, with reward Surpassing far all we deserved. A Home Of perfect peace, no envious spite or hate Within its sacred walls, but all pure love Towards our fellows, gratitude to God, A gratitude that all Eternal life Will not suffice to prove. ’Twere joy enough To lie before the Throne, and ever cry Our thanks for mercy so supreme! And oh! The vast tranquillity of those who feel That life on Earth is ended, Heaven gained! The Angel marked my gaze of rapt delight, And said, “Wouldst thou go nearer?” Swift as light We moved towards the City. On the steps, In dreamy ecstasy, I lay, afraid to move, Lest all the panorama should dissolve. I cared not that I was unfit to go, I cared not that I must return to Earth; I felt one moment in the Golden walls Was worth a dungeon’s chains “threescore and ten.” The glory of its music, and its light, Grew too intense, and sense forsook my brain.

Again my eyes unclosed, and ’mid the stars, Familiar faces of the telescope, We sped, while on the last confines of space, The City lay with golden halo girt. The systems passed, we neared old homelike Earth; And far enough to take a hemisphere At single glance, we paused. The little globe Was puffing on, like Kepler’s idea-beast, With breath like tides, and echo sounds of life; Thus trundling on its journey round the sun While o’er its back swarmed men the parasites. As rustic lad, who visits some great town, Returns ashamed of humble country home, So I now blushed to own the world I’d thought Was once so great. The Angel pointed down, And said, “Behold the vast domains of Earth! Behold the wondrous works of man, that calls Himself the measure of the Universe! Those gleaming threads are rivers, and the pools His boundless oceans. Those slow-gliding dots The gallant ships, in which he braves the storms The largest white one, see, is laboring now Beneath a cloud, your hand from here might span; What tiny tossings, like a jasmine’s bloom That drifts along the ripples of a brook! Now on the wave, now ’neath it, now ’tis gone; The pool hath gulfed it like a flake of snow. See, there are railroad lines, what works of art! Thou canst not see the blackened threadlike tracks, But thou mayst see the thundering train, that creeps Across the landscape like a score of ants Well laden, tandem, crawl across the floor. ’Twill take a day to reach yon smoky patch Of pebbles! ’Tis a great metropolis! Where Man is proud in power and lasting strength; Where Art hath budded into perfect bloom, Where towering domes defy the touch of Time, And rock-ribbed structures reck not of his scythe On every side, proclaimed Creation’s lord, Poor flattered Man the title proudly takes-- One little gap of Earth, and not a spire Would lift its gilded vane; the very dust Would never rise above the chasm’s mouth. And mark yon crowd outside the city’s bounds, They hail Man’s triumph over Nature’s laws; He conquers gravity, and dares to fly! The speck-like globe slow rises in the air, While all the throng below shout, “God-like Man!” How pitiful! The flag-decked car but drags Its way, a finger’s breadth above their heads, And falls, a few leagues off, into the sea; When ships must rescue Man, the king of air! “He soon will touch the stars,” enthusiasts cry; His highest flights ne’er reach the mountain-top, That lifts its mole-hill head above the plain.

What different views above and underneath! From one, the silken pear cleaves through the cloud, And floats, beyond your vision, in the blue, And franchised Man no longer wears Earth’s chain; The other sees him drifting o’er the ground, Beneath the level of the hills around, The captive still of watchful gravity.

Upon yon strip of land, two insect swarms Are drawn up, front to front, in serried lines; These are the armies, ’neath whose trampling tread The very Earth doth tremble, now they join In dreadful conflict. From the battling ranks Leap tiny bits of flame, and puffs of smoke, Where thundering cannon belch their carnage forth; The heated missile cleaves its sparkling way, The screaming shell its smoke-traced curve; the sword Gleams redly with the varnish of its blood, The bayonets like ripples on a lake. How palsied every arm, how still each heart! If one discharge of Heaven’s artillery roared Above their heads--not that faint mutter thou Perchance hast heard from some electric cloud, But when a meteor curves immensity, And bursts in glittering fragments that would dash Thy world an atom from their path. But God Hath thrown the blanket of His atmosphere Around the Earth, and shield, it from the jar Of pealing salvos, that reverberate Through Heaven’s illimitable dome. Yet thou, The meanest of thy race of worms, hast dared To question God’s designs. Know then that He Ordains that all, His glory shall work out. The coral architect beneath the wave Doth magnify Him, as the burning sun That lights a thousand worlds. His power directs The mechanism of a Universe, Whose vastness thou hast been allowed to see, And yet the mottled sparrow in the hedge Falls not without His notice. Magnitude Is not the seal of power, though man thinks so; The least brown feather of the sparrow’s wing, In adaptation to its end displays God’s wisdom, as the ocean. Harmony Is Heaven’s watchword, key to all designs. A tendency towards perfection’s end Pervades Creation; to this perfect end, The polity Divine is leading Earth. Endowed with reason, Man, perforce, is free; And God, forseeing how he’ll freely act, Adjusts all circumstance accordingly. The order of this sequence, Man doth learn In part; adapts himself to these fixed laws; And thus is formed a general harmony. Although the individual may oppose, His forseen freedom, acting in a net Of circumstance, secures the wished-for end. The bloodiest wars are sources of great good, Invasive floods rouse national energies, Or, mingling, form a greater people still; Hume’s skepticism foils its own design, And rouses lusty champions of the Truth, Who build its walls far stronger than before. Poor sordid Man! like all your gold-slave race, You deem wealth happiness. Hence, all your doubts About God’s providence are based on gold. The wicked have it, and the righteous not. What you assert is oftenest reversed, And in a census of the world, you’d find The good, in every land, the wealthiest. But Earth is not the bar where Man is judged; But only where free-will and circumstance May join in general progress. Gold is good! Then good depends on use of circumstance, And not on moral merit. Well ’tis so! For were the righteous only blessed, all men Would righteousness pursue, from sordid aims,-- The most devout, who love their money best; And thus good actions’ essence would be lost, That they be done for good, within itself, And not for benefit to be conferred.

Then for your doubts about the righteous poor; A certain law is fixed for general good,-- Some actions yield a gain and some a loss. A wicked man may use the first, and gain, A righteous man may use the last, and lose; The wicked does not gain by wickedness, But by compliance with this natural law. The righteous, still as righteous, might have gained By different course of conduct, had he known; But his condition now, can but be changed By special miracle; but miracles, In favor of the righteous, would destroy All strife for good as good. Their compensation in another world; The poor may find And even here, in consciousness of right, In surety of Heav’n, and peace of mind. And in the case you’ve stated, like all those Who talk as you have done, you overdraw, And color more with Fancy than with Truth. You’ll find no widow, perfect in her trust, As you’ve described, who is so destitute. Go search the lanes and alleys; where you find The greatest squalor, there is greatest crime; For poverty is oftenest but a name For reckless vice, and vile depravity. Your case is but exception to the rule, And not the rule, of Providence. To give The righteous, only, wealth and worldly store Would take away Man’s freedom, and all good.

But I will answer in your folly’s mode. The justice, then, of Nature’s laws you doubt, Forgetting they are fixed for general good, And not for individual. These laws, In their effects, you praise as very good; Yet, in their causes, call the most unjust. The fertile fields, with grain for man’s support, Are nourished by a miasmatic air, That, sickening but a few, feeds all the world. While, were the air all pure, a few were well, And millions starving. In the tropics, too, The scenes you deprecate, themselves but cause The very beauties you admire. Unjust, You would enjoy effects without a cause. The goods of Nature often take their rise From what to man proves evil. For the goods, He makes his mind to meet the evils; then Can he complain, or think it hard to bear? But Nature’s dealings towards Man are just. He knows that he is free, and Nature not; If he opposes Nature’s laws and falls, Is Nature to be blamed? The widow’s cot Is frail; the laws of general good require A storm; it comes, and shattered falls the cot. Should God have saved it by a miracle, Then all His people could demand the same, And Earth would soon become the bar of God, God may exert a special providence, But Man may not detect it, as the rule Invariable of life, and still be free; For he were thus compelled to seek the good. Then Nature, over Man, holds not a tyranny, But keeps the perfect pandect of her laws, And Man is free to obey them, or oppose.

Like shallow-thoughted reasoners of Earth, You make assertions without slightest proof, Or faintest shade of truth. Your thesis, this: God marks with disapproval all the good, And blesses all the evil with His smile. Entirely false in every case! The good Are ever happiest, in peace of mind, In ease of conscience, and the hope of Heaven. The wicked may be even rich, but wealth And happiness are far from synonyms. Is happiness the child of circumstance, Or is it not the offspring of the mind? And if the mind be tranquil and serene, Does happiness not follow everywhere? The cause of doubt in you, and many more, Is that the thousands who profess the good, Are ever mourning their unhappy lot, And sighing o’er the gloomy, narrow way; The tribulation of the promise read, Without its good cheer context. These are they Who stamp with misery’s blackest seal, a life Of righteousness. By these you cannot judge, For they are not what they profess, and would Be miserable in Heaven, unless changed. But take the truly good, one who’s content To take whate’er befalls, submissively; Who feels assured that all works for the best; Take him, in all conditions, rich or poor, In sickness or in health, in pain or ease; Compare your happy wicked, with his gold, ’Twill not require a moment to decide Which one is happier! Again, you ask Why Man was not created happy, and kept so? His very freedom and intelligence Prevents a forcèd happiness. The ends Of all Creation would be marred, and Man Lose personality. A happiness Made universal, asks morality That’s universally compelled; and lost Is all the scheme of virtue and reward. Man, forced to action would degenerate Into a listless, lifeless thing; the world Lose all its fine machinery of thought Combined with action. Beautiful variety Could not exist, dull sameness would be life. But Man is placed, with free intelligence, Amid surroundings from which he may cull A happiness intense, whate’er their nature be. If bright, the consciousness they are deserved; If gloomy, sweet reflections that they drape A future all the brighter for their gloom.

But Man, within himself, your puzzle proves; And not to you alone, for Angel wings Have hovered o’er your globe, and Angel minds Peered curiously into his soul, to learn Its mysteries, in vain. The Mind Supreme That formed the soul, alone can understand Its wondrous depths. ’Tis not surprising then That Man has tried in vain to know himself. His mind, compared with his body, seems so great, He deems its power unlimited. He finds It weak, before the barriers of thought, That gird it, mountain high, on every side. No path can he pursue that’s infinite. And few exist, that do not thither lead. Hence all the vagaries that have obtained Among your race. The doubt of everything, Is only too far tracing of a thought Into absurdity intense. If you Deem all the world effect upon yourself, A principle of fairness would demand That you accord the right to other men. The question then arises, who is he That really does exist, and all the rest His ideas? Sure your neighbor has the right To claim the honor, just as well as you! Hume’s foolish thought, extended to its length, Will answer not a single end of life, And terminates in nonsense none believe.

The conflict of the mental powers defeats Your inquiries. You cannot reconcile The unruled circumstance, with Man’s free-will You deem the motive free, and Man its slave; As if the motive, unintelligent, Could have a freedom, or a slavery! You make the motive to exist within the mind, When it, perforce, must be without. You get The unruled motive from the circumstance, When this itself must act upon the mind, And if _free_ motives rise within the mind, They are a _part_, and therefore _mind_ is free. And what you deemed a motive to the mind, Was mental action, and its modes of thought. The motive is confined to circumstance, And mind the circumstance can oft control, And even when it cannot, acts at will.

The mind may to a kingdom be compared, Where Reason occupies the throne. Beneath Its scepter bow, in perfect vassalage, The faculties, desires, and appetites. These then are acted on by motive powers, And straight report the action to their king, Who does impartially decide for each. The unruled motive is without the mind, And forms no part of it, although the parts, Receiving motive action, so are called. Thus when you hunger, the desire of food, Confined to mind, is not a motive power; But urged by motive bodily demand, It tells the need to Reason, who decides. Thus when you pare your peach, the tempting fruit And fleshly need, move on the appetite, Who begs the Reason for consent to eat; Your friend’s opinion of your self-control, Is motive to Desire of esteem, Who begs the Reason to refuse consent. The Reason, then, like righteous judge, decrees In favor of that one, more strongly shown; And feels a perfect freedom in its choice.

’Tis most unfair to wait the action’s end, Then cry, the mind was forced to choose this act; But choice is Reason’s free decree. Sometimes The Reason errs, and evil then ensues; But Reason, now more conscious that ’tis free, Regrets it had not acted otherwise. By knowing what your reason deems the best, You judge how other men will act. You learn, By intercourse, what they permit to change The Reason’s sentence. So, while with a friend, You show your wealth, because you know he’s free, And can, and will, resist impulse to crime. Were he not free, you’d dare not go alone With him, for, any moment, might arise A motive irresistible, and he Would kill and rob, because that motive’s slave. Were he not free, you were no more secure, In pleasant parlance, than on desert isle.

The laws are made for man, alone, as free. For, otherwise, the motives they present Were blind attempts so coincide with Fate. They would complete the gross absurdity, Of Man collective governing himself, And therefore free, while individuals Are helpless slaves of motives they but aid To furnish. Fate, as held in fullest form, Yourself has proved the theory of fools; For were it true, a blind passivity Were Man’s perfection on the Earth. Compare The two; Free-will as held, whate’er their faith, By every one, in daily practices; A world of harmony, for very wars Yield good; a mechanism complicate, That even Angels, wondering at, admire; A world, whose wondrous progress is maintained By practical belief in liberty. And on the other hand, behold a world Of universal inactivity! Its millions starving for delinquent Fate;-- I doubt your faith would last till dinner-time, A morning’s lapse would change a hungry globe To firm belief in free-will work for food.