THE SERAPH AND THE DOVE.
A Seraph strayed to earth from upper spheres,
Impelled by inward motion, vague yet strong:
He knew not wherefore he must leave the throng
Of kindred hierarchs for a world of tears:
But, mailed in proof divine, he felt no fears,
Obedient to an impulse clear of wrong:
And so he ceased awhile his heavenly song,
To measure his immortal life by years.
His arched brow uprose, a throne of light,
Where ordered thought a rule superior held;
Within his eyes celestial splendors dwell'd,
Ready to glow and bless with subject might,
When he should find why God had sent him here,
Shot like a star from out his native sphere.
He was alone; he stood apart from men:
His simple nature could not solve their ways;
For he had lived a life of love and praise,
And they forgot that God their Source had been.
So mused he on the visions of his mind,
Which, wondrous fair, recalled his home above:
He wist not why he was to space confin'd,
But waited, trusting in Omnific love.
Then lo! came fluttering to his arms a Dove,
Which for her foot had never yet found rest:
The Seraph folded her within his breast,
And as he felt the brooding warmth, he conscious, smiled and said, "Yes,
Father! Heaven can only be where kindred spirits wed!"
["My Dove" was one of my father's names for my mother; he found her a seal with a dove upon it. She several times referred to this title with joy, in talks with me.]
As his life has literally been so pure from the smallest taint of earthliness, it can only be because he is a Seer, that he knows of crime. Not Julian's little (no, great) angel heart and life are freer from any intention or act of wrong than his. And this is best proof to me of the absurdity of the prevalent idea that it is necessary to go through the fiery ordeal of sin to become wise and good. I think such an idea is blasphemy and the unpardonable sin. It is really abjuring God's voice within. We have not received, as we ought to have done, the last Saturday's number of "The Literary World." I have a great curiosity to read about "Mr. Noble Melancholy." Poor aunty! [Her aunt Pickman.] I really do not believe Shakespeare will be injured by being spoken of in the same paper with Mr. Hawthorne. But no comparison is made between them, though there is no reason why one great man may not be compared to another. There is no absolute difference in created souls, after all; and the intuitions of genius are identical, necessarily; for what is an intuition of genius but God's truth, revealed to a soul in high communion? I suppose it is not impossible for another Shakespeare to culminate. Even I—little bit of a tot of I—have sometimes recognized my own thought in Shakespeare. But do not tell aunt Pickman of this. Not believing in an absolute source of thought, she would pronounce me either irrecoverably insane or infinitely self-conceited.
Here is John.—No more. SOPHIA.
CHAPTER VI
LENOX
One of the authors in that excellent company congregated at this period in this part of Berkshire—Mr. Mansfield—writes to Mrs. Hawthorne for the pleasure of the thing; and one fairly hears the drone of time as the days hang ripe and sleepy upon his hands. I quote a few paragraphs from his letters:—