Do you deem this an idle old story,
Dragged out from the dust of the Past?
Alas! though so time-worn and hoary,
Its truths in the Present stand fast.
High up in the air, all blackened and bare,
Still rises the Castle of Doubt,
And the Giant, I trow, should you seek for him now,
You would find him still prowling about;
And the souls who go in to his Castle,
Are more than the souls who come out.
With the cudgel of Old Tradition,
Does he beat them from day to day,
And he carefully hides from their vision
The Light of the Present away.
The angels above, with compassionate love,
A plan for their rescue devise;
But the Giant cries out from his Castle of Doubt,
“Beware of delusion and lies!”
So they shrink back again to their prison,
And fear through the Truth to grow wise.
O, where is our Greatheart the valiant!
A terrible warfare to wage
On this old Theological Giant,
The Doubt and Despair of this age?
Let us rise, one and all, when our leader shall call,
And each for the conflict prepare;
We will march round about that old Castle of Doubt,
With our “Banner of Light” on the air,
And raze to its very foundations
The stronghold of Giant Despair.
“THE ORACLE.”
Like the roar of distant cataracts,
Like the slumbrous roll of waves,
Like the night-wind in the willows,
Sighing over lonely graves,
Like oracular responses,
Echoing from their secret caves,
Comes a sound of solemn meaning
From the spirits gone before;
Comes a terrible “awake thou!”
Startling man from sleep once more,
Like a wild wave beating, breaking,
On this Life’s tempestuous shore.
In Earth’s desolated temples
Have the oracles grown dumb,
And the priests, with lifeless rituals,
All man’s noblest powers benumb;
But a solemn voice is speaking—
Speaking of the yet to come.
There will be a chosen priestess,
Springing from the lap of Ease,
Hastening to the soul’s Dodona,
Where, amid the sacred trees,
She will hear divine responses,
Whispered in the passing breeze.
She will be a meek-faced woman,
Chastened by Affliction’s rod,
Who hath worshiped at the altar
Of the spirit’s “unknown God;”
Who in want, and woe, and weakness,
All alone the wine-press trod,
Till the salt sea-foam of Sorrow
Whitened on her quivering lips,
Till her heart’s full tide of anguish
Flooded to her finger-tips,
And her soul sank down in darkness,
Smitten by a dread eclipse.
“Pure in heart,” and “poor in spirit,”
Hers will be that inner life,
Which Earth’s martyr-souls inherit,
Who are conquerors in the strife.
Born of God they walk with Angels,
Where the air with love is rife.
Men will call her “Laureola,”[5]
And her pale, meek brow will crown;
But with holiest aspirations,
She will shun the world’s renown,
And before the Truth’s high altar,
Cast Earth’s votive offerings down.
Men will sit like little children
At her feet, high truths to learn,
And for love, the pure and holy,
She will cause their hearts to yearn;
Then the innocence of Eden
To their spirits shall return.
Very fearless in her freedom,
She will scorn to simply please;
But the fiercest lion-spirits
She will lead with quiet ease.
Calm, but earnest, firm and truthful,
She will utter words like these:—