Spirit.
Death strikes upon the soul the last deep chime,
That tells it Time's short hour has passed away,
Eternity's undialled course begun;
There is a trackless ocean round this life
Whose tide is tremulous with unseen gales,
And storms that lash it off to fury—shades
Of deep chaotic darkness ever hang
Above it, like the thunder crags of heaven,
And sounds, as of the swooning of a blast
Through time-worn caverns, flap their heavy wings
On the white foam crest of the surging waves.
O man! that standest on the pinnacle
Of life's abysmal heights with failing heart
And reeling brain, gaze on that troubled gulf—
It is thy pathway to the Better-Land,
Which thou must traverse with a sea-bird's flight,
Whose rest is on the bosom of the storm.
Ay! 'tis a fearful plunge! Now think of Death—
There is an angel merciful and strong,
Hovering ever o'er the weary world,
That foldeth in his arms the weak, whose feet
Totter upon the brink of the Inane,
And, like a mother, wafts them from Earth's strife
Into the bosom of eternal rest;
Is he not merciful who spares so long
The guilty for repentance, and the pure
Transplants in all their purity to heaven?
Death harms not aught that's lovely, that poor frame
Is mere corruption, which the soul makes fair
By luminous infusion, and the soul
Feels not Death's breathing on its healthful bloom,
But like a virgin doffs its earthly veil,
And gives its fullest beauty to the light.
Man.
O Spirit! tell me, shall we meet again
As those who have loved well in Time; or drop
All memories of Earth with the sad dust
The soul shakes from it at the gate of heaven?
'Twere bitter to regard her angel there,
Unknown, and lost amid the myriad host
Of spirits glorified!
Spirit.
The soul is wrought
In an eternal mould, which still remains
Unscathed 'mid the vicissitudes of flesh;
And the same power that makes identity
'Twixt man and man, being the soul within,
That constitutes the Self of every man,
Bears its distinctive features when it sheds
The crysalis of frail humanity;
They who have loved on Earth will love in Heaven,
Through each the current flowing unto God,
Thence shed again in blessing on their souls,
As from clear tided springs a summer cloud
Gathers its dewy freight to yield again,
In sunny showers upon the native earth.
True Love is Earth's blest blessedness. All else,
Wealth, fame, nobility, and the poor gauds
Wherewith man trinkets out his little life,
End with the dust that rattles on his bier;
But Love, like a rich heritage, ascends
With the freed spirit to the throne of God,
There to be perfected and purified
To commune with the Children of the Light.
Therefore love much on Earth, keeping the heart
Pure from the rank pollutions of the flesh,
That like a mould'ring bank hangs loose above
To launch its filth upon each errant wave;
Let thy love circle wider with all time,
Like the light ripple round a pebble plunge,
Wider, and wider till the swells subside
In the calm fulness of Eternity.
The love of heaven flows in one stream to God,
As from a fountain'd unison of soul
Wherein all spirits blend inseparably;
There is no isolation but in Time,
For Death that units out mortality
Like minutes on a dial, now, will break
His arrows 'mid the ruins of the Earth,
Proclaiming everlasting life and love,
The consummation of all unity.
Scene. Hill and Dale—Morning.
Man.
The breath of morn is stealing o'er my brow
All redolent of life, and health, and joy,
As the first breeze that fans the prisoner's cheeks,
And welcomes him to Liberty. The Earth
Is yet in her sweet childhood innocence,
Ere the dark cloud of worldly interests
Obscure her taintless heavens, and the blue mist,
Which is the spirit of the rising dew,
Hangs o'er it like the sadness of first love,
That makes youth beautiful. The lark is up
And singing like a disembodied soul
Within the brightness of the blessed sun,
Telling of naught but heaven and happiness;
There is no dew upon her bosom now,
For the young beams have kissed it utterly;
Yet over flower, and bud, and blade there lies
The crystal tissue, trembling with soft light,
As the young day moves gaily up the sky,
And sheds his guerdon o'er the waiting Earth.
O what a charm there is in purity,
Of morn, life, love, and nature all. This scene,
So clear and calm and peaceful, that it fills
The soul with its o'erflowing blessedness,
Pales 'neath the glare of noon, and man's rude lust,
To scarce the semblance of its former self.
But with the heart—O God! Thy richest gift
Is Innocence, that like a quenchless spring
Of everlasting light, encircles life
With beauty and unfading radiance,
Keeping all sense and feeling fresh and sweet
As the untainted breathing of the morn.