VISITANTS FROM SPIRIT-LAND.
Reading edition
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BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.
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Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door,
The loved ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit us once more.
—Longfellow.
They are ever hovering round us,
A mysterious, shadowy band,
Singing songs, low, soft and plaintive
They have learned in Spirit-Land.
Bright their wings as hues elysian,
Blended on the sunset sky,
By unseen, but angel-artists,
That concealed behind it lie.
Sweet their soft and gentle voices
Mingle with each passing breeze,
And the sorrowing heart rejoices,
As amid the leafy trees
In the green and verdant summer,
Tones long-hushed are heard again,
And the quick ear some new-comer
Catches joining in their strain.
Sceptics say ’tis but the breezes
Wandering on their wayward way—
That the souls of the departed
Rest in peace and bliss for aye.
But I know the fond, the loved ones,
Cleansed from every earthly stain,
Who have passed away before us,
Come to visit us again!
True, our eyes may not behold them,
Nor the glittering robes they wear.
True, our arms may not enfold them,
Radiant phantoms formed of air!
But I often hear them round me,
And each gentle voice is known,
When some dreamy spell hath bound me,
As I sit at eve alone!
Playmates of my joyous childhood,
Wont to laugh the hours away,
As they roamed with me the wildwood,
In life’s beauteous break-of-day;
They are spirits now, but hover
On bright pinions round me still,
Tender as some doting lover,
Warning me of every ill.
And among them comes one, brighter,
Fonder far than all beside,
Sunlight of my young existence,
Who in life’s green springtime died.
Music from her lips is gushing,
Like the wind-harps plaintive tune,
When the breeze with soft wing brushes
O’er its strings in flowery June.
O, thou white-browed peerless maiden,
Holiest star that beams for me!
Thou didst little dream how laden
Was this heart with love for thee!
Once fair garlands thou didst weave me,
But to gem Emanuel’s throne
Thou didst soar away and leave me
In this weary world alone!
But in dreams thou comest often,
Hovering saint-like round my bed,
Telling me in gentle whispers
Of the loved and early dead!
Once, methought, thou didst a letter
Bring from one remembered well,
Who has left this world of sorrow,
In the Spirit-Land to dwell!
Strange the seal, and when ’twas broken,
Strange the characters within,
For ’twas penned in language spoken
In a world devoid of Sin;
Told, no doubt, of joys that wait them
Who shall enter spotless there,
But before I could translate them
I awoke, and found them air!
Deem not that the soul reposes
In its radiant home for aye,
On the fragrant summer roses
Sunset beams may sadly play;
But they whisper “banish sorrow,
And from bitter thoughts refrain,
On the bright and glorious morrow
We will gild your leaves again!”