And thus the fiery cross, carried by the hands of unseen messengers, sped from point to point; the beacon fires lighted by invisible hands gleamed on every mountain top, and the low muffled sound of the spirit-raps that first broke the slumbers of the peaceful inhabitants of the humble tenement at Hydesville, became the clarion peal that sounded out to the millions of the Western Hemisphere, the anthem of the soul's immortality, chorused by hosts of God's bright ministering angels.
THE MAIDENS OF THE DAWNING LIGHT.
(Leah, Kate, Margaret.)
Oh, rustic little martyrs for the truth!
Whose earthly eyes so oft were dimmed with tears,
While on your cheeks the blush and bloom of youth
Was yet unsoiled by unborn struggling years.
Long years of suffering, years of holy joys,
Years of defeats and years of victories;
Years of sweet singing and of brawling noise,
Despair—but ever angel messages.
The memory of your mortal lives comes back;
Poor little girls! Why was the world so rough?
Of balm you brought there ever was a lack—
Of heavenly tidings never half enough!
Yet when to you the gentle "rappings" came,
Telling the story of immortal life,
The hungry world went crazy-mad to blame,
Accuse, defile, hunt, mob, make venomed strife.
Humble and poor as Christ was—kindly, too,
It seems so strange the thistle, hatred, grew
To whip your tender backs, with great ado,
Because you builded better than you knew.
But that is over. You have disappeared
From conflicts and from suffering, and to-day
From God's high country, we, your friends, endeared
By common aims, feel that you look this way.
Welcome, oh, heavenly sisters! See the light
Your youthful fingers kindled! How it spreads,
Lighting up places where were sin and night,
Whitening souls and shaping princely heads.
Lo! far it spreads! Beyond the rolling seas
Vast congregations celebrate the day
Your questionings unlocked death's mysteries,
And hailed the angels, who had come your way.
—Emma Rood Tuttle.