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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.

It traces Man, expelled from Paradise, Along the winding track of centuries. It marks his slow development, from two, To families, and tribes, and nations vast. It gazes on the wondrous scenes of war, And peace, and battle plain, and civic game; And lives through each, with all of real life, Except the body's presence there. It turns From man to beasts and birds, and careless strokes The lion's mane, the humbird's scarlet throat. It tracks the mammoth to his jungle home, Or creeps within the infusoria's cell. It measures Earth from pole to pole, or weighs The bit of brass, that lights the battery spark. Is Earth too small, it plumes its flight through space; From world to world, as bird from twig to twig, It flies, and furls its wing upon their discs, To tell their weight, and giant size, or breathe Their very air to find its gaseous parts. Now bathing in pale Saturn's misty rings, Or chasing all the moons of Jupiter Behind his darkened cone. The glorious sun, With dazzling vapor robe, and seas of fire, Whose cyclones dart the fork?d flames far out, To lap so hungrily amid the stars, Is but its playhouse, where it rides the storms, That sweep vast trenches through the surging fire, In which the little Earth could roll unseen; Or bolder still, beyond our system's bounds, It soars amid the wilderness of worlds; Finds one condemned to meet a doom of fire, And makes its very flames inscribe their names, In dusky lines, upon the spectroscope. With shuddering thought to see a world consumed, The fate prepared for ours, it lingers there Until the lurid conflagration dies. And then seeks Earth, and leaves the laggard, Light, To plod its journey vast. The smallest mote Of dust that settles on an insect's wing, It can dissect to atoms ultimate. With these, too small for sight, may Fancy deal, And revel in her Lilliputian realm. These atoms forming all, by Boscovitch Are proved, in everything, to be alike; And ultimate, since indivisible. Each in its place maintained by innate force And relatively far from each, as Earth From Sun. Suppose, then, each to be a world, Peopled with busy life, a human flood, As earnest in their little plans as we, As grand in their opinion of themselves! Oh! what a depth of contrast for the mind! The finest grain of sand, upon the beach, Has in its form a million perfect worlds! Or take the other scale, suppose the Earth, Our great and glorious Earth, to only form The millionth atom of some grain of sand, That shines unnoticed on an ocean's shore, Whose waves wash o'er our whirling stars and sun Too insignificant to feel their surge. Another step on either side, and mind, In flesh, shrinks from the giant grasp. Yet noble are its pinions, strong their flight; Thrice, only, do they droop their baffled strength, Before the Future, Infinite, Abstract! The first is locked, the second out of reach, The third a maze that none can penetrate. The first, alone to inspiration opes; The second dashed to Earth her boldest wing, Spinoza's, who essayed the idea God, And grappling bravely with the grand concept, So far above the utmost strength of Man, Placed God's existence in extent and thought; And filled all space with God. The Universe, A bud or bloom of the Eternal Mind, That opens like a flower into this form, And may retract Creation in Itself! Alas! that effort so sublime should end In mystery and doubt. A Universe, How vast so ever, has its bounds somewhere, But Space possesses none, and God in Space, Would be so far beyond Creation's speck, He scarce would know it did exist. That part Of Mind, expressed in matter, would be lost Amid the Infinite domains of thought.

Yet Man in flesh, the casket of the mind, Whose wondrous power I've told, is ever chained, A grovelling worm, to Earth, and never leaves The sod where he must lie. No time is his But present; not a mem'ry of the past. His very food, while in his mouth, alone, Tastes good. He stands a dummy in the world, That only acts when acted on. How great The mystery of union 'tween the two! A feather touches not the body, but the mind Perceives it; yet the mind may live through scenes The body never knew, nor can. Yet not With vivid life--the sense is lacking there. The memory of a banquet may be plain, So that the daintest dish could be described, As well as if the eye and tongue were there; The eye and tongue, alone the present know, And find no good in anything that's past. All thought is folly, every path is dark; Truth gleaming fairly in the distant haze, On near approach becomes the blackest lie. Man and his soul may go, nor will I fret To learn their mystic bonds. A worm I am, And worm I must remain, till Death shall burst The chrysalis, and free the web-wound wings. Yet, oh! 'twere grand to spurn the clogging Earth And cleave the air towards yonder looming cloud; To stand upon its red-bound crest and dare The storm-king's wildest wrath.

It was perfection's type, the absolute, Not one defect; the tiniest hair was smooth, The smallest feather's edge unfrayed. The eyes Without the slightest bloodshot fleck, or mote. No fault the microscope could have revealed, Though magnifying many million times. So great my wonder, that I could not move, But lay entranced, while he stood waiting there; Till wearied with my long delay, he raised His wings half-way, and eager trembled them, As bluebirds do when near their mate; a neigh Of trumpet tone aroused me. Then I sprang Upon his back, and wildly shouted "On!" A spring with gathered feet, a clash of wings, That made me cling in terror, and we swept From Earth into the air. Woods, plains, and streams Flashed by beneath, as, up and on, we charged Straight to the frowning cloud. My very brain Reeled with our lightning speed, and dizzy height, And oh! how silent was the air. No sound, Except the steady beat of fanning wings, That hurled us on a rod at every stroke. The bellowing winds were loosed and fiercely met Our flight. They tossed the broad white mane across My shrinking shoulders, like a scarf of silk; They blew the strong-quilled feathers all awry, And like a banner beat the silvered cloth; But swerving not to right or left, we pressed Straight onward to the goal. At last I reined My steed upon the shaggy ridge of clouds, And caracoled along the beetling cliffs, Up to the very summit. Then I paused. Behind me lay the world with all its hum Of life, the distant city's veil of smoke, The village gleaming white amid the trees; The very orchard I had left, now seemed A downy nest of green, and far away I caught the shimmer of the sea, where sails, With glidings, glittered like the snowy gulls. Behind all was serene, before me seethed The caldron of the tempest's wrath. Thick clouds, Thrice tenfold blacker than the black outside We see, deep in the crackling fire-crypts writhed, And boiling rose and fell. A deafening blast Roaring its thunder voice above the scene, As if the fiends of Hell concocted there The scalding beverage of the damned. My horse Had snuffed the fumes, and rearing on the brink, That fearful brink, an instant pawed the air, And then sprang off. A suffocating plunge, Through heat and blinding smoke, while to his neck Convulsively I clung! Down through the cloud, Until I gasped for breath, and felt my brain Was bursting with the fervid weight. He stopped Before a large pavilion, round whose walls, As faithful guard, a whirlwind fierce revolved, And at whose folded door, with dazzling blade, The lightning stood a sentinel. My steed Was passport, and I passed within, but stopped Upon the threshold, dumb with awe. The walls Seemed blazing mirrors, whose bright polished sides "Threw back in flaming lineaments" the form Of every object there,--a trembling wretch, With pallid countenance, shown ghastly red, Upon a horse of War's own direful hue, I saw reflected there. The floor seemed made Of tesselated froth, whose bubbles burst, With constant hissing, into rainbow sparks; While like the sulph'rous canopy, that drapes, At evening's close, a gory battle-field, The roof of crimson vapor drooped and rose, With every breath and every slightest sound. And in the center of the glowing room, Upon a sapphire throne an Angel sat, Upon whose brow Rebuke and Wisdom met. He gazed upon me with such pitying look, And yet withal so stern, that all my pride Was gone, and humble as a conquered child, I ran with trembling haste and near the throne Kneeled down. "Vain man," he said, "and hast thou dared To doubt the providence of God; Behold!" And, lo! one side of the pavilion rose, And out before me lay Immensity. The frothy floor, now crumbling from the edge, Dissolved away close to my very feet, The walls contracted their three sides in one, And I, beside a throne I dared not grasp, Stood on a narrow ledge of fragile foam, That clicked its thousand little globes of air, With every motion of my feet. Far down Below, the black abyss of chaos yawned, So vast, I gasped while gazing, and so deep, The Sun's swift arrowy rays flash down for years, And scarcely reach the dark confines, or fade Amid the impenetrable gloom. Methought 'Twas Hell's wide jaws, that opened underneath The Universe, to catch as crumbs the worlds Condemned, and shaken from their orbit's track. And long I looked into the vast black throat, To trace the murky glow of hidden fire, Or catch the distant roar. But all was still; No murmur broke the silence of its gloom, No faintest glimmer told of lurking light, No smoky volumes curdled in its depths; As dark as Egypt's plague, serenely calm, Defying light, the empty hall of Space, Where twinkled not a star nor blazed a sun.-- A grand eternal night! I shuddering turned, With freezing blood to think of falling there, And stretched a palsied hand to touch the throne. The Angel's eye was sterner, as he waved Towards my steed, who seemed of marble carved. The wings unfolded, and he leaped in air, Beating from off the ledge the flakes of foam That sank, with airy spirals, out of sight. With slanting flight across the gulf he sheared; The moveless wings were not extended straight, But stood, at graceful angle, o'er his back, As, swifter than a swooping kite, he flashed Adown the gloom. His flowing mane broad borne Out level, like another wing; his feet With slow ellipses moving alternate, As if he trod an unseen path. 'Twas grand To see his graceful form, more snowy white Against the black relief, sublimely float Across the dark profound, and down its depths, Pass from my view. As when an Eagle soars Beyond our vision in the azure sky, We wonder what he sees, or whither flies, So I stood wondering if he would return, And what his destination down th' abyss.

Above, around, all was infinitude Of light and harmony. The worlds moved on, In mazy multitude, without a jar, Star circling planet, planet sun, and suns In systems, farther yet and farther still, Till multiplying millions mingled formed A sheet of milky hue. And far beyond The last pale star, appeared a dazzling spot, That flamed with brightness so ineffable The eye shrank 'neath its gleam. And from its light, Athwart the endless realms of space, there streamed A radiance that illumed the Universe, And down across the chasm of Chaos flung A wavering band of purple and of gold. And in that distant spot my 'wildered eyes Traced out the figure of a Great White Throne, Round which, in grand and solemn majesty, Slow swept Creation's boundless macrocosm.-- I felt too insignificant to pray, But mutely waited for the Angel's words. He spoke not, but the curtains closer drew, And left a narrow opening in front. Then with a speed the lightning ne'er attained, Our cloud pavilion swiftly whirled through space. A seed that would have slain me with its haste, Had not the Angel been so near. As on the cars, We dash through towns, and mark the hurrying lights, Or shudder at an engine rattling by; So through our door, I marked the countless worlds, In clustering systems, chained by gravity, Flash by an endless course. A second's time Sufficed to pass our little group of stars, That waltz about our Sun, as if it lit The very Universe. Then systems came, Round which our system moves, and these Round others, till the series grew so vast I shrank from looking. Great Alcyone, Our telescopic giantess, a babe Amid the monsters of the starry tribe, The last familiar face in Heaven's throng, Blazed by the door; an instant, out of sight! And after all that we have known or named On Earth were far behind, the millions came In endless multitude; and on we swept, Till worlds became a dull monotony, And all the wonders of the Heavens were shown. A planet wheels its huge proportions past, Its pimpled face with red volcanoes thick, That, with our speed, seem girdling bands of light; A Sun, whose flame would fade our yellow spark, Roars out a moment at our narrow door As through its blaze we fly, then dies away, Casting a weird and momentary gleam Over the Angel's unrelenting face; A meteor tears its whizzing way along, All showering off the scintillating sparks That mark its trail. Far off, a comet runs Its bended course, the mighty fan-like tail Lit with a myriad globes of dancing fire, That seemed like Argus' eyes on Juno's bird. And on we sped, till one last Sun appeared, A monstrous hemisphere of concave shape, And brilliancy intense; it seemed to stand On great Creation's bounds, a lense of light. Close by its vast red rim we shaved, and passed Beyond, to empty space unoccupied. No world, no sun, no object passed the door; The steady blue, tinged with a brightening gold, Alone was seen. Still on and on we flew, Until a score of ages seemed elapsed, And I had near forgotten Earth and home.

And yet the air grew brighter, till I feared That we approached a sun, so infinite In light, that I should sink in dazzled death.

We came to rest, the curtains fell away, And lo! I stood within the light of Heaven. And oh! its glorious light! No angry red, Nor blinding white, nor sickly yellow glare, But one vast golden flood, sublime, serene, No object near, on which it could reflect, It formed the very atmosphere itself, An air in which the soul could bathe and breathe, And ever live without its fleshly food.

No object near, for on the farthest bounds Of space immense as mortal can conceive, Creation hung, a group of clustering motes, Where only suns were seen as tiny specks, And Earth and smaller stars were out of sight. No object near, for farther than the motes, The walls of Heaven, in glorious grandeur loomed, Yet near as flesh and blood could bear. How grand! From infinite to infinite extent The glittering battlements were spread, the height Above conception, built of purest gold, Yet gold transparent, for I could discern Though indistinctly, domes and spires beyond, And all the wondrous workmanship divine, That blazed with jewels, flashing varied hues In perfect union; and bright happy fields, That bloomed with flowers immortal, in whose midst The crystal river ran. And through the scenes Thronged million forms, that each sought happiness, From million varied, purified desires. Each face serenely bright as Evening's star, And some I thought I knew, were dear to me; But as I gazed, they ever disappeared.

Along the walls, twelve gates of pearl were seen, So great their breadth, and high their jewelled arch, That Earth could almost trundle in untouched, And in each arch was fixed a giant bell Of silver, with a golden tongue that hung, A pendant sun. So wide the silver lips, That Chimularee plucked up by the roots, And as a clapper swung within its circ, Would tinkle, like a pebble, noiselessly Against the rigid side. And as the saved Were brought in teeming host, by Angel bands, Before the gates, the bells began their swing; And to and fro the ponderous tongue was hurled, Till through the portals marched the shouting throng, And then it fell against the bounding side. And loud and long their booming thunder Rends the golden air asunder, While the ransomed, passing under, Fall in praise beneath the bells, Whose mighty throbbing welcome tells; And the Angels hush their harps in wonder-- Bells of Heaven, glory booming bells!

Gentler now, the silver's shiver Purls the rippling waves that quiver Through the ether's tide forever, Mellow as they left the bells, Whose softening vibrate welcome tells; And the quavers play adown the river-- Bells of Heaven, softly sobbing bells!

Then the dreamy cadence dying, Sings as soft as zephyrs sighing; Faintest echoes cease replying To the murmur of the bells, Whose stilling tremor welcome tells, Faintly as the snow-flakes falling, lying-- Bells of Heaven, dreamy murmuring bells!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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 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.

To end with perfect proof, you know you're free. This all the world attests, and each believes. How subtle soe'er may his reasoning be, He contradicts it throughout all his life; And all his plans, and all the right and wrong Of self and friends he bases on free-will. If disbelief no inconvenience prove, Few men believe what is not understood; And yet the most familiar things of life Are far beyond their comprehensions' power. Who understands the turning of the food To sinew, muscle, blood, and bone? yet who Will starve because he knows not how 'tis done? Who understands the mystery of birth, And when and where the soul originates? And yet a million mothers bend, to-day, O'er tender babes, and know that they exist; A billion people know they once were born. Who understands the mystery of death, And how the soul is severed from its clay? Yet who has not wept o'er departed ones, Received the dying clasp, the dying look, And known, full well, Death's bitter, bitter truth? None comprehends the movement of a limb, Yet many boast the powers of their's might. Then why doubt freedom of the will, when life, In every phase, but proves its certain truth? The edifice of shallow theorists Before the sweeping blade of practice falls.

The mind of beasts exists but through their flesh, And is developed subject to its laws, And flesh is the condition of their life. When flesh dissolves, the mind disintegrates, And ceases to exist. Man feels within, The consciousness of soul, that would survive Though flesh were torn to shreds upon the wheel. The parts of soul that live alone through flesh, Must perish with it in the hour of death.

But having postulated Self, as source Of human conduct, you compel the acts To fit your theory. You change effect For cause. Where'er a moral pleasure's found, You judge that for its gain the deed was done; As if the pleasure could be gained by search! That Self does enter largely into inner life Is very plain, for everything affects, In some way, Self; but does the mind regard Effect, or is its object something else? The appetites, affections, and desires, You make of selfish origin, yet know That is not selfish, which alone affects; But acting with a reference to effect. The appetites are instincts; as you breathe, You hunger, thirst, in helplessness. Not Self, But food or drink, the object of your thought. And even while the taste is in your mouth, The mind dwells on the taste, not on the Self. Desires are partly selfish in their mode; Desire of knowledge, seeking honor's meed, Is selfish; led by curiosity, 'Tis not more selfish than an appetite. Desire of power, esteem, and wide-spread fame, Is selfish, when the thought of their effect On Self shapes out the conduct; when desired For their own sake, unselfish. On the list Affections terminate, you falsely rail The mother, and the lover; both sincere, And both without a thought of selfish aim. 'Tis no reproach to say the mother's love, In fervid instinct, and development, Is like the cow's, that God in wisdom gives. No love so pure as that which moves the cow To hover round her young, to bear the blows Impatient hunger deals the udder drained, To smooth with loving tongue the tender coat, Or meet the playful forehead with her own; With threatening horn, to guard approach of harm; And watch, with ceaseless care, the charge in sleep. Her careful love continues, till the calf Has grown beyond her need, and ceases then. A mother loves because it is her child: This is the surest reason you could give. Th' affection is spontaneous in her breast, But fed and strengthened by his life, if good. The opposites to love you named, affect Her love, by not an injury done to Self, But by their evil, which her soul abhors. Her son's antagonism's not to her, But to the good she loves. Her heart withdraws Its twining tendrils from unworthiness. As usual, you select supposed effects, And then assume their causes. Could you see The mother's heart, you'd find the loss of love Caused not by wrong to her, but wrong abstract Developed in the concrete deeds of crime. Her love is governed by a moral sense, Or idea of the good; the people's thought About herself comes in as after-part. Bad treatment to herself, although it pain, Deals not a fatal blow to love, except As showing lack of principle in him. And so your lover is not hurt in Self, But moral sense. The loved one's perfidy, And not her ridicule, beheads your love; Her stunning words were playful pleasantry, Did they not show the baseness of the heart. Indeed, to turn your reasoning on yourself, Her manner even towards you has not changed, And were you present, she would still seem yours; Her eaves-dropped words do not affect the Self, Save as they show her falsity of heart. And tossing on your pillow, through the night, The crushing thought of wrecked integrity Gives deeper pain than all her ridicule. And Self, though pained at thought of being duped, Enjoys relief in thought of its escape. To show that Love is built on higher grounds Than paltry good for Self; that it must have, As corner-stone, a percept of the good, Existing in the object loved, suppose You're on the topmost height of wildest love, Your arm around her, and your lingering kiss Upon her lips; and Self is king of love. She, nestling on your shoulder, finds 'tis wrong, That love, however true, may grow too warm; That every kiss, however pure, abstracts Some little part from maiden modesty, And steals a pebble from her honor's wall And rising with the firm resolve, says, "Cease, Unwind your arm, restrain your fervid lips; It may be wrong, and right is surely safe!" Now though the Self is bitterly denied, The rapturous clasp and tender kiss forbid, Is not your love increased a thousand-fold? Do not you feel intensely gratified At this assurance of her moral worth? And would you, for the world, breath aught to cause Her pain, or least regret for her resolve? How firm your trust, how sweet your confidence! You know 'twas not capricious prudery, For your caresses had been oft received; Nor was it sly hypocrisy to win Your heart, for that was long since hers. No thought, But spotless purity, inspired the act; And you are happy, though the Self's denied.

The little things of life, that men account Without a moral value, may be done With reference to Self; but oftenest, The mind regards the act, not its effect Upon the Self. The code of Etiquette, The small amenities of social life, The converse, and the articles of dress, May all belong to Self; but moral acts, Those known as right or wrong, have higher source Than Self in any mode. Within Man's breast There's something, apprehending good and bad, Called conscience, or the moral sense; it views, Impartially, each act of his, decides Its quality by rule of right and wrong; All trust its judgments most implicitly.-- The good is found, yields greatest happiness; Yet seek it for the sake of happiness, And good is evil, with its misery! The good must be pursued, because a good, The evil shunned, because an evil. Thus, The moral sense discerns these qualities In others, and directs our love. A blow The deadliest to our love, would be a blow Aimed at the principle of good. A love, Existing through the injuries done to Self, May meet the public's praise, and feel its own; But love would merit self-contempt, that loved Whate'er opposed the good. The son may treat The mother with unkindness, yet her love Be undiminished; if he lie, or steal, Her love is less; she cannot love his deed, And cannot love the heart from which they flow So with the youth who gives his chair to Age, He does not so resent that Self's denied Its meed of thanks, as that ingratitude Should thus be manifest, in little things. A comrade, served the same, would anger cause.

But him who would give up the highest Self, The soul, for others' good, you deem a fool; And ask why sacrifice ne'er claimed a soul? Because the soul cannot be sacrificed; No harm to that can others benefit. But if it could, how truly grand the man Who'd take eternal woe for fellow-men! But God, who makes the soul the care of life, Makes every soul stand for itself alone, And in His wisdom hath ordained this law: The greater good man gets for his own soul, The greater good on others' he confers, While evil to himself, an evil gives.

Then comes the question of this abstract good, That moral sense declares the end of life. What is its nature? whence does it arise? And whence does man derive the half-formed thought? You have compared the systems that define, Each in its way, the hidden theory. None satisfy, though each some element Sets forth in clear distinctness. Take them all, Select the true of each, as Cousin does, And will eclecticism satisfy? And does the soul not cry for something more? For something that it feels 'twill never reach, The good, as known to minds unclogged with flesh? Man takes the dim outlines of abstract thought, And seeking to evolve their perfect form, The very outlines grow more indistinct; As gazing at a star will make it fade. Man's only forms of good are blent with flesh, And when he seeks to take the flesh away, And leave the abstract, he is thus confused, As if he should withdraw the wick and oil, And seek to find the flame still in the lamp.

The good is then a certain quality, In actions, or existence, that assures Divine approval. This vast idea, God, Creation sows in every human heart; All Nature's grand designs demand a God, A God intelligent. The same instinct That tells His being, teaches what He loves; And what He loves with every people's good. But different nations entertain ideas Diverse in reference to a Deity, And different notions of what pleases Him. One deems the care of God's child-gift her good; Another tears the heart-strings from her babe, And feeds, for good, the sacred crocodile.

The good lies in the thought of pleasing God: The consciousness that God is pleased with us, A pleasure yields, and good might there be sought For pleasure's sake, and prove a selfish aim; But moral selfishness a pain imparts, And good, for pleasure sought, defeats the search.

The good is sought, because it pleases God, Not with the doer, but with what is done. Good has its origin in th' idea God, And what He loves; but to continue good It must retain approval in the act, And not transfer it to the agent's self. The consciousness that God approves a deed, Makes Man approve, and thus his mind is brought In correlation with the Mind Divine. The man who does an alms, if done to gain God's favor for himself, feels selfish pain; But if because the act, not he, will please, He finds the pleasure. Man, as time rolls on, Finds general laws that please or displease God, And ranging, under these, subordinates Amenable to them and not to God, The moral quality of lesser deeds He reckons by these laws, nor does ascend To God, that gives their moral quality. Jouffroy, in Order, placed the Abstract Good, And paused a step below the real truth, The idea God, whence Order emanates.

Thus Man, progressing, good withdraws from God And seems an independent entity, And man denominates it, Abstract Good. He can attain the Abstract but in part; When mind is freed from flesh, he may attain To its full grandeur. Here, at most, he grasps A faint outline, and fits it on concrete. No concept occupies one act of mind, But opening the lettered label, he May count the attributes, and by an act Complex, of memory and cognition, gain Some idea of his Abstract. Thus of "Man," One act can only cognize M-A-N, But opening, he finds the attributes, As "mammal," "biped," "vertebrate." This act Is complex, and he cannot unitize, Save by the bundle of a word. You've said It answers all the purposes of life, Then why seek more? lest speculation vain Point out dim realms, where Man can never tread, These baffling thoughts are given, as peacocks' feet, To Man's fond pride. The simplest avenue Of thought, pursued, will reach absurdity, To comprehension finite. Even the truth Of numbers you presume to doubt. Two balls, You claim, can ne'er be two unless alike. You mingle quantity and number, foolishly, As if a ball the size of Earth, and one, A tiny mustard-seed, would not be two! You deem all Mathematics wide at fault, Because Man's powers to illustrate are weak. Earth has oft seen a pure right angle drawn, Because Man's sight could not detect a flaw; And if to his discernment perfect made, He must admit its perfect form. If life, In every intricate demand, finds truth, Why seek to overturn by sophistry? You see and know Achilles far beyond The tortoise, yet the super-wise must prove That he can never pass the creeping thing, Although his speed a hundred times as swift! When Man commences, he may find a doubt In everything; his life, his neighbor's life, The outside world, may all be but a myth; Then let him so believe, but let him act Consistently; but does the skeptic so? He crams all Nature in his little mind, Yet how he cringes to her slightest law! He flees the rain, and wards the cold, or fears The lightning's glittering blow. He doubts his frame Can work by mechanism so absurd, Yet will not for a day refrain from food!

When Man compares his body and his mind, And tries the power of each, he magnifies The mind to Deity, and yet how small Compared with what it has to learn! The more Man knows, the more he finds he does not know; And as a traveller toiling up the hill, Each upward step reveals a wider view Of fields of thought sublime he dares not hope To ever reach in life; and wearily he sits Him down upon the mountain-side, so far Beneath its untrod top, and recklessly Doubts everything, because beyond his grasp.

All skeptic reasoning ends, as did your own, No fruit but blind bewilderment of thought! And none but fools will e'er believe sincere The faith that doubts alone by theory, And yet approves by practice. Such is yours; The stern necessities of life demand A practical belief, and such is given; And still, forsooth, because your narrow mind Cannot contain the Truth in perfect form, You dare deny it does exist. But few Of skeptic minds are let to live on Earth, And even these made instruments of good, In calling forth defenders of the Truth, Who add their strength to its Eternal Walls. Then here behold God's wisdom manifest! Amid the care of countless greater orbs, He watches Earth, and knows its smallest thing. While Man, as individual, is free, Collective Man is being surely led Towards an end, but when it will be reached, God knows alone. Then Man will be removed Into a higher or a lower sphere, As he has worthy proved. With Man 'twill be A great event; his awful Judgment-day! When from those far-off realms, the Son shall come With Angel retinue, and through the worlds, Shall lead their solemn flight, to where we stand; And as the trump shall peal its clarion tones, And beat away Earth's gauze of atmosphere, The millions living, and the billions dead, Will leave the sod, and "caught up in the air," Shall stand before the Throne, to hear their doom. Then, faces pale with fear, and trembling limbs, Will be on every side, as on the air They rest, with nothing solid 'neath their feet; And see dismantled Earth burst into flames, And reel along its track, a globe of fire, The volumed smoke, a dusky envelope; Its revolutions wrapping pliant flames, In scarlet girdles, round its bulging waist, And hurling streams of centrifugal sparks, In broad red tangents, from the burning orb. Upon the conflagration Man will gaze, With shuddering horror; 'tis his only home, The scene of all his fame, the source of wealth, For which he toiled so wearily. All gone! He would not touch a mountain of pure gold, For 'twould be useless now! Poor, pauper Man, Without his money, chiefest aim of life, Stands homeless 'mid a Universe, to learn If God will be his Father, or his Foe! And from the blackness underneath, the swarms Of Evil ones are thronged, their hideous forms Half shown in lurid light, as here and there They flit, like sharks, expectant of their prey. Then comes the closing scene. The sentence passed, The righteous breaking forth to joyous praise, Shall thread Creation's wondrous maze of life, And with their Leader, sweep towards yon Heaven; While down the black abyss, with cries of woe That make the darkness tremble, the condemned Are dragged, into its gloom,--and all is o'er-- Earth's ashes float in scattered clouds through space-- To Man the grandest era of all Time, To God, completion of Salvation's scheme!

But Man deems Judgment too far off for thought, Nor will prepare for such a distant fate; Yet there is something, far more sure than aught Uncertain life can offer; its decision, too, Is just as final as the Judgment doom; And still 'tis oftenest farthest from the thought. 'Tis Death, the welcome or unwelcome guest Of every man, and yet how few prepare For its approach! They give all else a care; Wealth, honor, fame, get all their time, While certain Death's forgotten, till disease Gives warning; then with hasty penitence, The knees are worn, the heart's thick rubbish cleared; But oft too late; the heart will not be cleared, The stubborn knees will not consent to bend, The house is set in order, while the guest, In sable robes, stands at the throbbing door.

And now to close thy lesson, look through this! He gave to me a strangely fashioned glass, Through which, when I had looked to Earth, I saw A long black wall, that towered immensely high, So none might see beyond. Before its length, Mankind were ranged, all weaving busily; The young and old, the maiden and the man; The infant hands unconscious plied the thread, The aged with a feeble, listless move. They wove the warp of Life, and drew its thread From o'er the wall; none knew how far its end Was off, nor when 'twould reach the busy hand, Nor did they care, in aught by action shown, But bending o'er their work, without a glance Towards the thread, that still so smoothly ran, They threw the shuttle back and forth again, Till suddenly the ravelled end appeared, Fell from the wall, and to the shuttle crept; And then the weaver laid his work aside, With folded hands, was wrapped within his warp, To wait the Master's sentence on his task. I saw the thread, in passing through their hands, Received the various colors, from their touch, And tinged the different patterns that they wove. And oh! how different in design! Some wove A spotless fabric, whose pure simple plan Was always ready for the ending thread; Come when it would, no part was incomplete; But what was done, could bear th' Inspector's eye. And others wove a dark and dingy rag, That bore no pattern, save its filthiness; Fit garment for the fool who weaves for flames! Some wove the great red woof of war, With clashing swords, and crossing bayonets, With ghastly bones, and famished widows' homes, With all the grim machinery of Death, To gain a paltry crown, or curule chair; Perchance, before the crown or chair is reached, The thread gives out, the work is incomplete, And in the gory cloak his hands have wrought, With all its stains unwashed, the hero sleeps. Some shuttles shape the gilded temple, Fame, And count on thread to weave its topmost dome; But ere the lowest pinnacle is touched, The brittle filament is snapped. Some weave The bema, with its loud applause; and some The gaudy chaplet of the bacchanal, And others sweated bays of honest toil. But all the fabrics bear the yellow stain Of gold, o'er which the sinner and the saint Unseemly strive, and he seems happiest Whose work is yellowest. Along the wall, "A fountain filled with blood," plays constantly, Where man may cleanse the fabric as he weaves; Yet few avail themselves; the waters flow, While Man works on, without regard to stains, Till thread worn thin arouses him to fear, Or breaks before the damning dyes are cleansed.

And down the line I ran my anxious eyes, To find a weaver I might recognize, And saw, at last, a form by mirrors known. Oh! 'twas a shameful texture that I wove, So dark its hue, so little saving white, Such seldom bathing in the fountain stream, I could not look, but bowed my blushing face, And like the publican of old, cried out, "Be merciful to me a sinner!" "Rise!" The Angel said, "And worship God alone, Return to Earth, enjoy an humble faith, Whose simple trust shall make thee happier Than all the grandeur of philosophy. Should doubts arise, remember, God's designs Above a finite comprehension stand, And finite doubts, about the Infinite, Assume absurdity's intensest form. Man, from the stand-point of the Present, looks, And disappointed, bitterly complains Of what would move his deepest gratitude, Could he the issue of the morrow know. God sees the future, and in kindness deals To every man his complement of good. Remember then the weakness of thy mind, Nor doubt because thou canst not understand. To gather scattered jewels thou must kneel; So on thy knees seek truth, and thou shalt find; The nearer Earth thy face, the nearer Heaven Thy heart. And now farewell!" I sprang to clasp His hand in gratitude, but with a wave Of parting benediction, he was gone! Then in an instant, like an aerolite, With naught to bear me up, I fell to Earth, Swifter and swifter, with increasing speed! Now bursting through a sunlit bank of cloud, And clutching, vainly, at the yielding mist, Or through a cradling storm, with thunder charged, Down through the open air, whose parted breath Hissed death into my ears, while all below Seemed rushing up to meet and mangle me. I shrieked aloud, "Oh save me!"-- And awoke. The day was o'er, and night had drawn her shades; The twinkling eyes of Heaven shone through the leaves, And lit the tiny rain-globes on the grass; The cloud had passed, and on th' horizon's verge, A monster firefly, with shimmering flash, It slowly crawled behind the curve of death. And evening's silence deeper seemed than noon's, For not a sound disturbed the hush of night, Save katydids, with quavering monotones, Returning contradictions from the trees. All drenched and chilled, with trembling limbs I rose, And homeward bent my steps; and pondering Upon my dream, this moral from it drew: Man cannot judge the Eternal Mind by his, But must accept the mysteries of Life, As purposes Divine, with perfect ends. And in our darkest clouds, God's Angels stand, To work Man's present and eternal good.

THE VILLAGE ON THE TAR

DEDICATED TO PETTIGREW COUNCIL NO 1. F. OF T.

A drunkard in a distant town lay dying on his bed, There was lack of woman's gentle touch about his fevered head, But a comrade stood beside him, and wiped the foam away, That bubbled through his frothy lips, to hear what he might say. The poor inebriate faltered, as he caught that comrade's eye, And he said, "'Tis hard, far, far from home 'mid strangers thus to die. Take a message and a token to my friends away so far, For Louisburg's my native place, the village on the Tar.

"Tell my brothers and companions, should they ever wish to know The story of the fallen, ah! the fallen one so low, That we drank the whole night deeply, and when at last 'twas o'er, Full many a form lay beastly drunk along the barroom floor. And there were 'mid those wretches some who had long served sin, Their bloated features telling well what faithful slaves they'd been; And some were young and had not on the Hell-path entered far-- And one was from the village, the village on the Tar.

"Tell my mother that her other sons may still some comfort prove, But I, in even childhood, would scorn that mother's love; And when she called the children to lift up the evening prayer, One form was always missing, there was e'er one vacant chair, For my father was a drunkard, and even as a child He taught my little feet to tread the road to ruin wild; And when he died and left us to dispute about his will, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's 'still,' And with sottish love I used it till its venomed 'worm' did gnaw My soul, my mind, my very life, in the village on the Taw.

"Tell my sister oft to weep for me with sad and drooping head, When she sees the wine flow freely, that poison ruby red, And to turn her back upon it, with deep and burning shame, For her brother fell before it and disgraced the fam'ly name. And if a drunkard seeks her love, oh! tell her, for my sake, To shun the loathsome creature, as she would a deadly snake, And have the old 'still' torn away, its fragments scattered far, For the honor of the village, the village on the Tar.

"There's another, not a sister; in the merry days of old, You'd have known her by the dark blue eye, and hair of wavy gold; Too gentle e'er to chide me, too devoted e'er to hate, She loved me, though oft warned by all to shun the dreaded fate. Tell her the last night of my life--for ere the morning dawn, My body will be tenantless, my clay-chained spirit gone-- I dreamed I stood beside her, and in those lovely blue depths saw The merry light that cheered me, in the village on the Taw.

"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."

He ceased to speak, and through his frame there ran a shiver slight, His blood-shot eyes rolled inward and revealed their ghastly white, His swollen tongue protruded, o'er his face a pallor spread, His comrade touched his pulse--'twas still--and he was with the dead. The moon from her pavilion, in the blue-draped fleecy cloud, Through the window o'er the corpse had thrown her pale but ghostly shroud, The same moon that gazing upon that couch of straw. Was bathing in a silver flood the village on the Taw.

REQUIESCAM

Where in summer the thick twining foliage weaves A green, arching roof upon high, And the rain-drops fall from the dripping eaves, Like tears of grief from the weeping leaves On the face upturned to the sky!

Where the silence frightens the birds away, And all is still, dreary and weird, Except, perchance at the close of day, The bittern's boom or the crane's hoarse bray, Floating over the swamp, is heard.

Where the dusky wolf and the antlered deer Ever shun the dark, haunted ground; Where the crouching panther ventures near, His tawny coat all bristling with fear, At the sight of the low, red mound.

Where at twilight gray, the lone whippoorwill May perch on the stake at my head, And with its unearthly, tremulous trill The dreary gloom of the whole place fill With a requiem over the dead.

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