O, children of our Father! Weep not for those who pass, Like rose-leaves gently scattered, Like dew-drops from the grass. Ay, look not down in sadness, But fix your gaze on high; They only dropped their mantles-- Their souls can never die. They live! and still unbroken Is that magnetic chain, Which, in your tearful blindness, You thought was rent in twain. That chain of love was fashioned By more than human art, And every link is welded So firm it cannot part. They live! but O, not idly, To fold their hands to rest, For they who love God truly, Are they who serve him best. Love lightens all their labor, And makes all duty sweet; Their hands are never weary, Nor way-worn are their feet. Thus by that world of beauty, And by that life of love, And by the holy angels Who listen now above, I pledge my soul’s endeavor, To do whate’er I can To bless my sister woman, And aid my brother man. O Thou, whose love is changeless, Both now and evermore, Source of all conscious being! Thy goodness I adore. Lord, I would ever praise Thee For all Thy love can give; But most of all, O Father, I thank Thee that I live. [The two following poems were given under an influence purporting to be that of Shakspeare.] LIFE. “To be, or not to be,” is not “the question;” There is no choice of Life. Ay, mark it well!-- For Death is but another name for Change. The weary shuffle off their mortal coil, And think to slumber in eternal night. But, lo! the man, though dead, is living still; Unclothed, is clothed upon, and his Mortality Is swallowed up of Life. “He babbles o’ green fields, then falls asleep,” And straight awakes amid eternal verdure. Fairer than “dreams of a Midsummer’s Night,” The fields Elysian stretch before him. No “Tempest” rends the ever peaceful bowers Of asphodel, and fadeless amaranth; No hot sirocco blows with poisonous breath; No midnight frights him with its goblins grim, Presaging sudden death. No Macbeth there, Mad with ambition, plotteth damning deeds; No Hamlet, haunted by his father’s ghost, Stalks wildly forth intent on vengeance dire. The curse of Cain on earth is consummate, And knows no resurrection. Spirits learn That spirit is immortal, and no poisoned cup, Or dagger’s thrust, or sting of deadly asp, Can rob it of its Godlike attribute. This mortal garb may be as full of wounds And bloody rents as royal Cæsar’s mantle; Yet that which made it man or Cæsar liveth still.