And the landscape sped away behind And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, The first that the General saw were the groups The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray: By the flash of his eye, and his red nostrils' play, Hurrah, hurrah, for Sheridan! Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, 1864. THE CLOSING SCENE. Within the sober realm of leafless trees The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang low; As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed His winter log with many a muffled blow. To shake his sapient head, and give The ill he cannot cure a name. Nor fetch to take the accustomed toll Of the poor sinner bound for death, His brother doctor of the soul, To canvass with official breath The future and its viewless things That undiscovered mystery Which one who feels death's winnowing wings Must needs read clearer, sure, than he! Bring none of these! but let me be, While all around in silence lies, Moved to the window near, and see Once more before my dying eyes, Bathed in the sacred dews of morn, The wide, aërial landscape spread— The world which was ere I was born, The world which lasts when I am dead. Which never was the friend of one, There let me gaze, till I become In soul with what I gaze on wed! To feel the universe my home; To have before my mind-instead Of the sick-room, the mortal strife, Not human combatings with death. Thus feeling, gazing, let me grow Composed, refreshed, ennobled, clear; Then willing let my spirit go To work or wait elsewhere or here! DR. ARNOLD. O strong soul, by what shore Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left in vain : Somewhere, surely, afar, In the sounding labor-house vast, Of being, is practised that strength, Zealous, beneficent, firm! Yes, in some far-shining sphere, Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live, Still thou upraisest with zeal Sternly repressest the bad, Still, like a trumpet dost rouse AUSTERITY OF POETRY. That son of Italy who tried to blow, Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow 'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay! Thomas Lake Harris. Harris was born at Fenny-Stratford, England, May 15. 1823, and brought to America when only five years old. The career of Harris is a study for the psychologist. Impulsive and impressionable, he became at an early age a Universalist preacher. In 1850 he was one of the leaders in a movement for a communist settlement at Mountain Cove, Fayette County, Virginia. It was not a success. He lectured for a time in opposition to Christianity, but this phase of his doctrinal belief was transient: he claimed a new development, became zealously Christian, and assumed a theosophic authority. He taught that in many mediums the possession is of a demoniac, rather than of an angelic origin; and he admitted that he had at times been under the influence of these "subjective devils," from whom he was now happily free. Believing that his inspiration was at length purely divine, he became somewhat dictatorial in his tone. There is no evidence that he has not been conscientious and sincere in all his changes. As a writer he is forcible and eloquent. After preaching in London (1859, '60), he returned to the United States, and organized a new society. William Howitt says of him: “He arrives at his conclusions by flashes of intuition." In what appeared to be a state of trance, he dictated his poems, a volume at a time, or as fast as his amanuensis-generally his publisher — could write. The chief of these productions are: The Epic of the Starry Heavens" (New York, 1854; fourth edition, 1855); "The Lyric of the Morning Land" (1854); "The Lyric of the Golden Age" (1856); “Regina, a Song of Many Days" (London, 1859). The amazing eelerity with which these remarkable poems, all showing extraordinary literary facility and bursts of true poetry, were written is attested by Mr. S. B. Brittan and others. Among the distinguished converts who followed Harris was Mr. Lawrence Oliphant, an English author of note. In 1880 Harris was the chief of a society, called "The Brotherhood of the New Life," established at Fountain Grove, Santa Rosa, Cal. He says of his poems: "They are not mine; they are the work of mighty poets in their glory above." In this extraordinary assertion he was doubtless sincere. THE SPIRIT-BORN.' Night overtook me ere my race was run, And mind, which is the chariot of the soul, Whose wheels revolve in radiance like the sun, And utter glorious music as they roll To the eternal goal, With sudden shock stood still. I heard the boom Of thunders; many cataracts seemed to pour From the invisible mountains; through the gloom Flowed the great waters; then I knew no more But this, that thought was o'er. As one who, drowning, feels his anguish cease, So, sinking deep beneath the unknown sea I knew I was not dead, though soon to be, And Life and Death and Immortality, Each of my being held a separate part; 1 Harris claims to have uttered this under the control of the spirit of Robert Southey, who, it will be remembered, died insane. There is both method and beauty in the "madness”— if such it be. Life there, as sap within an o'erblown tree; Death there, as frost, with intermitting smart ; But in the secret heart The sense of immortality, the breath Of being indestructible, the trust The soul, like some sweet flower-bud yet unblown, And lo! I was in Paradise. The beams Of morning shone o'er landscapes green and gold, O'er trees with star-like clusters, o'er the streams Of crystal, and o'er many a tented fold. A patriarch-as of old Melchisedec might have approached a guestDrew near me, as in reverent awe I bent, And bade me welcome to the Land of Rest, And led me upward, wondering, but content, Into his milk-white tent. Robert Leighton. A man of genius and true poetical tastes, Leighton (1822-1869) was a native of Dundee. He engaged in mercantile pursuits in Liverpool. In 1855 he put forth a volume entitled "Rhymes and Poems," which was reprinted in 1861. Another volume of poems from his pen, published in 1869, was received with much favor. YE THREE VOICES. Ye glasse was at my lippe, I was about to sippe, When a voice came from ye glasse: "And would'st thou have a rosie nose, A blotchéd face and vacant eye, A shakey frame that feeblie goes, A form and feature alle awry,— A bodie racked with rheumic paine, A burnt-up stomach, fevered braine, I have a thought, that as we live elsewhere, So will those dear creations of the brain; That what I lose unread, I'll find, and there Take up my joy again. Oh, then the bliss of blisses, to be freed From all the wants by which the world is driven: With liberty and endless time to read The libraries of Heaven! David Atwood Wasson. AMERICAN. Wasson was born at West Brookfield, Me., May 14th, 1823. He entered Bowdoin College, but left before the close of his sophomore year. Afterward he studied law, but, declining the practice, turned his attention to theology. His writings have appeared chiefly in the Atlantic Monthly, North American Review, and Christian Examiner. For twelve years he has been a student of the moral and political sciences; and it is understood that he has on hand, nearly complete, an elaborate work on the fundamental principles of political society. An independent thinker, well versed in the highest philosophy, Wasson has also given evidences of high genius as a poet; while he has controverted the materialism of the age with a skill at once logical and scientific. His residence (1880) was West Medford, Mass. MINISTERING ANGELS TO THE IMPRISONED SOUL. FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. The bread of life we bring, immortal Truth,— The wine of life, pure joy of Love, we bear; Eat, famished heart, regain thy godlike youth, Drink, arid soul, and thy lost hopes repair! Yet luminous æthers hold the hills of heaven, Yet breathe its meadows unexhausted balm, Yet, shining 'mid the groves at morn and even, The wise with wise have speech in regal calm. O unforgotten, how couldst thou forget? In each, in thee, would fain Existence flower. room! |