Poems from the Inner Life. Doten Lizzie

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ “Inner Life;” and in that self-same sacred retreat—which I have entered either by the intense concentration of all my intellectual powers, or a passive surrender to the inspirations that moved upon me—I have held conscious communion with disembodied spirits. At such times it has been said I was “entranced;” and although that term does not exactly express my idea, perhaps it is the best which can yet be found in our language. The avenues of external sense, if not entirely closed, were at least disused, in order that the spiritual perceptions might be quickened to the required degree, and also that the world of causes, of which earth and its experiences are but the passing effects, might be disclosed to my vision. Certain it is that a physical change took place, affecting both my breathing and circulation, and my clairvoyant powers were so strengthened that I could dimly perceive external objects from the frontal portion of my brain, even with my eyes closed and bandaged; also, in that state, any excess of light was far more painful than under ordinary conditions. If the communications given through my instrumentality have been weak, erroneous, and imperfect, it is no fault of my spirit-teachers, but arises rather from my own inability to understand or clearly express what was communicated to me.

      In relation to the poems given under direct spirit-influence I would say, that there has been a mistake existing in many minds concerning them, which I take the present opportunity, as far as possible, to correct. They were not like lightning flashes, coming unheralded, and vanishing without leaving a trace behind. Several days before they were given, I would receive intimations of them. Oftentimes, and particularly under the influence of Poe, I would awake in the night from a deep slumber, and detached fragments of those poems would be floating through my mind, though in a few moments after they would vanish like a dream. I have sometimes awakened myself by repeating them aloud. I have been informed, also, by these influences, that all their poems are as complete and finished in spirit-life as they are in this, and the only reason why they cannot be repeated again and again is because of the difficulty of bringing a human organism always into the same state of exaltation—a state in which mediums readily receive inspiration, and render the poems with the least interference of their own intellect.

      Among these spiritual poems will be found two purporting to come from Shakspeare. This influence seemed to overwhelm and crush me. I was afraid, and shrank from it. Only those two poems were given, and then the attempt was not repeated. I do not think that the poems in themselves come up to the productions of his master mind. They are only intimations of what might have been, if he had had a stronger and more effectual instrument upon which to pour his inspirations. I have no doubt that time will yet furnish one upon whom his mantle will fall; but I can only say that his power was mightier than I could bear. As I have regarded him spiritually, he seems to be a majestic intellect, but one that overawes rather than attracts me; and my conclusion has been, that while in the flesh, although he was of himself a mighty mind, yet still he spake wiser than he knew, being moved upon by those superior powers who choose men for their mouthpieces, and oblige them to speak startling words into the dull ear of the times. As all Nature is a manifestation of Deity, so all Humanity is a manifestation of mind—differing, however, in degrees of development—and one body serves as an instrument to effect the purposes of many minds. This is illustrated in the pursuits and employments of ordinary life, and has a far deeper significance when taken in connection with the invisible world.

      The influence of Burns was pleasant, easy, and exhilarating, and left me in a cheerful mood. As a spirit, he seemed to be genial and kindly, with a clear perception and earnest love of simple truth, and at the same time a good-natured contempt for all shams, mere forms, and solemn mockeries. This was the way in which he impressed me, and I felt much more benefited than burdened by his presence.

      The first poem delivered by Poe, came to me far more unexpectedly than any other. By referring to the introductory remarks, copied from the “Springfield Republican,” it will be seen that the supposition is presented, that I, or “the one who wrote the poem,” must have been very familiar with the writings of Poe. As no one wrote the poem for me, consequently I am the only one who can answer to the supposition; and I can say, most conscientiously, that previous to that time I had never read, to my knowledge, any of his poems, save “The Raven,” and I had not seen that for several years. Indeed, I may well say in this connection, that I have read, comparatively speaking, very little poetry in the course of my life, and have never made the style of any author a study. The influence of Poe was neither pleasant nor easy. I can only describe it as a species of mental intoxication. I was tortured with a feeling of great restlessness and irritability, and strange, incongruous images crowded my brain. Some were bewildering and dazzling as the sun, others dark and repulsive. Under his influence, particularly, I suffered the greatest exhaustion of vital energy, so much so, that after giving one of his poems, I was usually quite ill for several days.

      But from his first poem to the last—“The Farewell to Earth,”—was a marked, and rapid change. It would seem as though, in that higher life, where the opportunities for spiritual development far transcend those of earth, that by his quick and active perceptions he had seized upon the Divine Idea which was endeavoring to find expression through his life, both in Time and Eternity; and that from the moment this became apparent, with a volcanic energy, with the battle-strokes of a true hero, he had overthrown every obstacle, and hewn a way through every barrier that impeded the free outgrowth and manifestation of his diviner self. His “Farewell” is not a mere poem of the imagination. It is a record of facts. I can clearly perceive, as his spirit has been revealed to me, that there was a deep significance in his words, when he said—

      “I will sunder, and forever,

       Every tie of human passion that can bind my soul to Earth— Every slavish tie that binds me to the things of little worth.”

      As he last appeared to me, he was full of majesty and strength, self-poised and calm, and it would seem by the expression of his countenance, radiant with victory, that the reward promised to “him that overcometh,” had been made his sure possession. Around his brow, as a spiritual emblem, was an olive-wreath, whose leaves glowed like fire. He stood upon the side of a mountain, which was white and glittering like crystal, and the full tide of inspiration to which he gave utterance could not be comprehended in human speech. That last “Farewell,” as it found expression through my weak lips, was but the faintest possible echo of that most musical and majestic lyric which thrilled the harp-strings of my being. In order to be fully realized and understood, the soul must be transported to that sphere of spiritual perceptions, where there is no audible “speech nor language,” and where the “voice is not heard.”

      Obedient to the call of the Angels, he has “gone up higher” in the ways of Eternal Progress; and though, because of this change, he may no longer manifest himself as he was, yet doubtless as he is, he will yet be felt as a Presence and a Power in the “Heaven” of many a human heart. Upon earth he was a meteor light, flashing with a startling brilliancy across the intellectual firmament; but now he is a star of ever-increasing magnitude, which has at length gravitated to its own place among the celestial spheres.

      In saying thus much, I cannot so play the coward to my spiritual convictions as to offer the slightest apology for any ideas I may have advanced contrary to popular prejudices or time-honored opinions. O, thoughtful reader! if I have offended thee, say simply that these are my convictions and not yours, and do not fear for the result; for in whatsoever I purpose or perform, I “can do nothing against the Truth—only for it.” I do not indulge in the conceit that this little work has any important mission to perform, or that it will cause any commotion in the literary world. But I have felt, as one by one these poems have been wrought out—by general or special inspiration—from my “Inner Life,” that in this matter I had a work, simple though it might be, to do, and my soul was sorely “straitened till it was accomplished.”

      As some of these poems, appearing at various times, have been severely criticized in the past, so I would say now, that if any there should be, who, through bigotry, or prejudice, or a desire to display their superior wisdom, should СКАЧАТЬ