At length came a mortal, who sought to find rest From the hopes and the longings that strove in his breast; For all that the world with its wealth could impart, Had failed to bring comfort and peace to his heart. “O, grant my petition, fair angel,” he cried. “What wouldst thou, O mortal?” the angel replied. “I ask not for wealth, which would make me a slave; I ask not a name, to be lost at the grave; I ask not for glory, for honor, or power; Or freedom from care through my life’s little hour-- But I ask that the gift which hath made thee divine, Of comfort, and healing, and strength, may be mine.” Then the angel uplifted a chalice most fair, Which seemed to be filled with a balm-breathing air, And a chrism outpoured on the suppliant’s head, Whose fragrance like soft wreathing incense out-*spread. “Go forth,” said the angel, “thy mission fulfill, With faith in the heart, which gives strength to the will.” Then lo! in an instant the angel had flown, And left the glad mortal in silence, alone; But a token was given that his mission was blest, When the dove fluttered down and reposed in his breast; As the prophet of old let his mantle of grace Float downward to him who should stand in his place. O Helper! O Healer! whoever thou art, Let love, like an angel, abide in thy heart. Let mercy plead low for the sinful and wrong, Let might, born of justice and right, make thee strong; Then Help shall descend at thy call from above, And peace in thy bosom shall rest like a dove. TRUTH TRIUMPHANT. O YE who dare not trust the Soul To guide you in your heavenward way-- Who turn from its divine control, Blind Superstition to obey-- Know that at length shall come an hour, When darkness shall be changed to light, And Truth, majestic in her power, Shall vindicate her ancient right. The monstrous blasphemy of creeds Which represent an angry God, Who tempts man sorely through his needs, And meets his failings with a rod-- Eternal wrath, through blood appeased, The curse of God, salvation’s plan, Are nightmare visions, which have seized The slumbering consciousness of man. Beyond the dim and distant line, Which bounds the vision of to-day, Great stars of truth shall rise and shine With steady and unclouded ray; And calm, brave souls, who through the night Have waited patiently and long, Will see these heralds of the light, And feel themselves in truth made strong. Blind Superstition, cowering, sits Amid the ashes of the past; While old Tradition, bat-like, flits Where Time its deepest gloom hath cast. The bigot, prospering through fraud, Pays to the church his tithes, and then, With pious fervor, thanks the Lord That “he is not like other men.”