O, holy sense of wrongs forgot, And injuries forgiven! The human heart that feels thee not, Knows not the peace of Heaven. Ye blesséd spirits from above, Who guide us while we live, O, teach us also how to love, And freely to forgive. POEMS FROM THE INNER LIFE. PART II. The succeeding poems were given under direct spirit influence before public audiences. For many of them I could not obtain the authorship, but for such as I could, the names are given. POEMS FROM THE INNER LIFE. THE SPIRIT-CHILD. BY “JENNIE.” O, thou holy Heaven above us! O, ye angel hosts who love us! Ye alone know how to prove us By the discipline of life-- That we faint not in endeavor, But with cheerful courage ever Rise victorious in the strife. O, my sister! O, my brother I was once a mortal mother; One sweet blossom, and no other, Bloomed upon the household tree: Very fragile, very tender, Very beautiful and slender-- He was dear as life to me. All the spring-time’s fresh unfolding, All of Art’s exquisite moulding, All that thrills one in beholding, Centred in that fair young face; While an angel-tempered gladness, Almost blending into sadness, Filled him with a nameless grace. And I loved him without measure; O, a ceaseless fount of pleasure Found I in that little treasure! And my heart grew good and great, As I thanked the God of Heaven That this precious one was given Thus to cheer my low estate. But, with all my prayers ascending, I could hear a low voice blending, Like some benison descending, Saying, “Place thy hopes above; For the test of all affection Is the full and free rejection Of all selfishness in love.” Then I felt a sad foreboding, All my soul to anguish goading, All my inward peace corroding; And my rebel heart begun, Crying wildly, that I would not Yield my precious one--I could not Say, “Thy will, not mine, be done.” Spring-time came with genial showers, Bursting buds and opening flowers, Singing birds and sunny hours, Filling heaven and earth with light. But the Summer--fair deceiver!-- Came with pestilence and fever, Came my little bud to blight. O’er my threshold silent stealing, Chilling every sense and feeling, All the fount of grief unsealing, Came the great white angel, Death; And my flower upon my bosom Withered, like an early blossom Stricken by the north wind’s breath. And I saw him weakly lying, Heard his parched lips faintly sighing, Knew that he was dying--_dying!_ And my love was vain to save! All my wild, impassioned pleading, All my fervent interceding, Could not triumph o’er the grave.