And lands, of which in youth I dreamed
And read, heart-moved, and longed to see,
When really visited, have seemed
Not strange but known to me.
When Mozart, still a child, untaught,
Ran joyous to the silent keys,
And with inspired fingers wrought
Majestic harmonies,
There fell upon his psychic ear
Faint echoes of a music known
Before his natal advent here,
In former lives outgrown.
In many a dumb brute's wistful eyes
A dawning human soul aspires,
For thus from lower forms we rise,—
Ourselves our spirits' sires.
Full many a thought that thrills my breast
Is fruit resulting from a seed
Sown elsewhere,—on my soul impressed
By many an arduous deed;
Full many a fetter which hath lamed
My struggling spirit's upward flight
Was once by that same spirit framed,
When further from the Light;
With justice, therefore, comes the pain
That o'er the tortured world extends;
And hopeful is the lessening stain,
As each life-cycle ends.
No changeless, endless states await
The good and evil souls set free;
Each grave is a successive gate
In immortality.
Too long this mighty truth hath slept
Among the darkened souls of men,—
"Ye cannot see God's face, except
Ye shall be born again."
The God-like Christs and Buddhas yearn,
However high their spirits' stage,
For man's salvation to return,
As Saviour or as Sage.