Poems from the Inner Life. Doten Lizzie

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СКАЧАТЬ been realized by me in my spiritual experience, and has become to me an abiding truth, full of strength for the present, and hope for the future. When your souls sincerely hunger after such a revelation, you will seek for it, and according to your need, you will be filled therewith. Until then, you and I, regarding things from a different point of view, must inevitably understand them differently. There are various cups which Humanity must drink of, and “baptisms which it must be baptized with,” and this manifestation of Truth, of which I am but one of the humble representatives, has laid its controlling hand upon me; for what purpose, in the mysterious results which lie concealed in the future, I cannot tell—I only know that it is so.

      Looking back upon my experience, I cannot doubt that I—with many others—was destined to this phase of development, and designed for this peculiar work, before I knew conscious being. My brain was fashioned, and my nervous system finely strung, so that I should inevitably catch the thrill of the innumerable voices resounding through the universe, and translate their messages into human language, as coherently and clearly as my imperfections would allow. The early influences of my childhood, the experiences of later years, and more than all, that unutterable yearning for Beauty and Harmony, which I felt dimly conscious was somewhere in the universe, all tended to drive me back from the world, which would not and could not give me what I asked, to the revelations of my inner life—to the “Heaven within me.” It was only through the cultivation of my spiritual nature that “spiritual things were to be discerned,” and the stern necessity of my life was the Teacher which finally educated me into the perception of Truth.

      I turn back to the memories of my childhood—to that long course of trying experiences through which I passed, guided by strange and invisible influences; and that whole course of discipline has for me now a peculiar significance. Those who were near and dear to me, and who were most familiar with my habits of life, knew little of my intense spiritual experience. I was too much afraid of being ridiculed and misunderstood to dare give any expression to the strange and indefinable emotions within me. Such ones, however, may call to mind the child who often, through the long winter evenings, sat in profound silence by the fireside, with her head and face enveloped in her apron, to exclude, as far as possible, all external sight and sound. What I heard and saw then but dimly returns to me; but even then the revelations from the “Heaven within” had commenced, and succeeding years have so strengthened and confirmed my vision, that such scenes have become to me living truths and blessed realities. The “Heaven” that “lay about me in my infancy” sent its rich glow through my childhood, and sheds its mystic brightness upon the pathway of my riper years.

      Often, in the retirement of a small closet, I spent hours in total darkness, lying prostrate on the floor, beating the waves of the mysterious Infinite that rolled in a stormy flood over me, and with prayers and tears beseeching deliverance from my blindness and seeming unbelief. Then, when by my earnestness the spirit had become stronger than the flesh, I would gradually fall into a deep trance, from which I would arise strengthened and consoled by the assurance—from whence I could not tell—that somewhere in the future I should find all the life, and light, and freedom that my soul desired. The only evidence or knowledge which those around me received of such visitations was occasionally a poem—some of them written so early in life, that the childish chirography rendered them almost illegible. Because of these early productions, it has been asserted that my claim to any individual spirit-influence was either a falsehood or delusion. I will only say in reply, that there is no need of entering upon any argument on the subject. I claim both a general and particular inspiration. They do not, by any means, conflict; and what I do not receive from one, comes from the other. For the very reason that I have natural poetic tendencies, I attract influences of a kindred nature; and when I desire it, or they will to do so, they cast their characteristic inspirations upon me, and I give them utterance according to my ability. It is often as difficult to decide what is the action of one’s own intellect and what is spirit-influence, as it is in our ordinary associations to determine what is original with ourselves and what we have received from circumstances or contact with the mind of others. Yet, nevertheless, there are cases where the distinction is so evident that it is not to be doubted. Only one or two such well-attested instances is sufficient to establish the theory. I am not willing to ignore one faculty or power of my being for the sake of proving a favorite idea; and, on the contrary, I cannot conscientiously deny that, in the mysteries of my inner life, I have been acted upon decidedly and directly by disembodied intelligences, and this, sometimes, by an inspiration characteristic of the individual, or by a psychological influence similar to that whereby mind acts upon mind in the body. Under such influences I have not necessarily lost my individuality, or become wholly unconscious. I was, for the time being, like a harp in the hands of superior powers, and just in proportion as my entire nature was attuned to thrill responsive to their touch, did I give voice and expression to their unwritten music. They furnished the inspiration, but it was of necessity modified by the nature and character of the instrument upon which they played, for the most skilful musician cannot change the tone of a harp to the sound of a trumpet, though he may give a characteristic expression of himself through either.

      The presence and influence of these powers is to me no new or recent occurrence, although I may not have understood them in the same light as I do at present. They have formed a part of all my past life, and I can trace the evidence of spiritual assistance running like a golden thread through all my intellectual efforts. As I do not desire to practise any deception upon the public, but on the contrary only wish to declare the simple truth, I have published in this volume quite a number of poems, written several years previous to my appearance before the public as a medium or a speaker. Although these were mostly wrought out of my brain by the slow process of thought, yet for some of these, even, I can claim as direct and special an inspiration as for those delivered upon the platform. The first poem in this present work—“The Prayer of the Sorrowing,”—and that which immediately succeeds it—“The Song of Truth,”—containing in itself an answer to the Prayer, were given to me under peculiar circumstances. The first was the language of my own soul, intensified by an occasion of great mental anguish. The second, following directly upon it, was an illumination of my entire being, when I seemed to have wept away the scales from my eyes, and “by the deep conflict of my soul in prayer,” to have broken the fetters of my mortality, and stepped forth into that freedom whereby I stood face to face with the ministering spirits, and heard that “Song of Truth” sounding through the universe. I have only known but few such visitations in my lifetime, but when they have come, I have felt that I have taken a free, deep breath of celestial air, and caught a glimpse of the Realities of Things. As an immediate consequence, my spirit has become braver and stronger, and long after my inward vision was closed, the cheering light of that blessed revelation has lingered in my heart.

      Another poem, which bore evidence to me of an inspiration acting upon me, and external to myself, was the “Song of the North,” relating to the fate of Sir John Franklin and his men. I was desired to write an illustration for a plate, about to appear in the “Lily of the Valley,” an Annual published by J. M. Usher, of Cornhill, Boston. I endeavored to do so, but day after day passed by and my labor was in vain, for not one acceptable idea would suggest itself. The publisher sent for the article, but it was not in being. One day, however, I was seized with an indefinable uneasiness. I wandered up and down through the house and garden, till finally the idea of what I was to do became clearly defined; then, with my paper and pencil, I hastened to a quiet corner in the attic, where nearly all my poems had been written, and there I wrote the Song of the North—so rapidly, that it was scarce legible, and I was obliged to copy it at once, lest I should lose the connection. The next day it seemed as foreign and strange to me as it would to any one who had never seen it. At the time this was written (in April, 1853) strong hopes were entertained of the discovery of Franklin and his men, together with their safe return; therefore I hesitated to make public that which seemed a decided affirmation to the contrary. Nevertheless, so strong were my convictions as to the truth of the poem, that I allowed it to be published. Later revelations concerning the fate of that brave adventurer and his companions gave to the poem somewhat of the character of a prophecy.

      How far I have ever written, independent of these higher influences, I cannot СКАЧАТЬ