Poetical excerpts from:
FROM
THE SPIRIT-LAND,
———
THROUGH THE MEDIUMSHIP
OF
MRS. J. H. CONANT.
COMPILED BY
ALLEN PUTNAM,
AUTHOR OF “SPIRIT
WORKS;" "NATTY, A SPIRIT;" "MESMERISM,
SPIRITUALISM,
WITCHCRAFT, AND MIRACLE;" ETC.,
BOSTON:
1872.
APPENDIX TO PREFACE.
————
A request
was made that a few Invocations in verse, uttered at the public circles,
and some poetical effusions, through the same organism, at other places, should
be included in this volume. They could have no fitting place among Questions
and Answers, and are made an Appendix here.
INVOCATION.
Holy angels, guide these mortals
O'er the mystic waves of
time;
Open wide the shining portals
Leading unto heights sublime;
Lift, O lift the veil that
hides them
From their loved ones, gone
before!
Show them but their shining
faces,
Waiting on the other shore.
————
CHRISTMAS
INVOCATION.
O thou, whose mysterious presence
Fills the earth, the air and
sea,
We would chant undying
praises,
We would worship only thee.
From the earth's unnumbered
altars
Human sighs and tears are
born,
Praying for a glad hereafter
–
Weary watchers in the storm.
Let them hear the chime of
voices
Voices from the spirit-land
–
Waking all the slumbering
echoes,
Strengthening heart and
strengthening hand.
17
18 APPENDIX
TO PREFACE.
Let them see the star of
promise
That shall lead to brighter
days,
Over all the plains of error,
Where the babe of Bethlehem
lays.
Let them sing that holy
anthem,
Sung by angels long
ago,—
"Peace on earth, good
will from Heaven,"
Golden side of human woe.
Then the night shall grow to
morning,
Then the angels join the
song,
For the day of peace is
dawning;
Lo! the Son of Truth is born!
————
INVOCATION.
O thou source of endless wisdom,
Lord of earth and land
Elysian,
We would bathe our weary
spirits
In the fullness of thy love.
We would drink the healing
waters
Flowing from unnumbered
altars,—
Altars where no blood-stained
offerings
Fill the earth with woe.
We would rise redeemed,
redeeming,
Losing all our earthly
seeming,
In the holy words,
forgiveness
Of all earthly sin.
We would dwell with saints
and sages,
Whose great thoughts have
thrilled past ages,
Calling all men to adore
thee,
Lord of heaven and earth.
Hear our prayer, ye guardian
angels;
Be to us as bright evangels,
Bearing our poor sin-stained
message
To the throne of love.
APPENDIX
TO PREFACE. 19
INVOCATION.
O God
of all nations! O light of our souls!
Whose loving hand guides us, whose wisdom
controls,
Through the weakness, and darkness, and
sorrows of time,
O lead these thy children to soul-heights
sublime.
Let us teach them to love thee and serve
thee aright,
Never fearing the darkness, yet loving
the light;
Never doubting thy presence, ever
trusting thy grace,
To give to each soul its true portion and
place.
And unto thee, O God of our life, be the
homage and honor of nations and individuals, forever. Amen.
————
INVOCATION.
O thou,
whose love prevaileth
Over all the ills of life,
Whose mercy never faileth
When we are weary of the strife
That comes of human weakness,
By some called human sin,
Whose wisdom opens heaven's gates,
That all may enter in;
We would sing thee glad hosannas,
We would join the earth and air
In their everlasting chorus,
And their one eternal prayer.
For all that life can give us,
For all that hath been given,
For every tear of sorrow,
And every hope of heaven,
We thank thee, O, our God.
————
INVOCATION.
O spirit
of mercy, of justice, and love,
O'ershadow thy children—with peace
from above;
Let the phantoms of fear, of doubt and
despair,
Be lost in the radiance of spiritual air;
20 APPENDIX
TO PREFACE.
Let the songs of the angels be heard in
the skies,
Proclaiming the truth that the soul never
dies;
That all things are carefully guarded by
thee,
But the soul in its beauty at death is
set free.
————
CHRISTMAS INVOCATION.
O God,
our God!
Faint and weary are thy children,
Toiling up the steep of time,
Seeking for the Eastern token,
Listening for the morning chime;
Waiting, waiting, ever waiting
For the voice of long ago,
With its soft, melodious accents,
Soothing every human woe.
Know they not the star has risen,
And its glory gilds the earth?
Hear they not the song of angels
O'er this glorious second birth?
"Peace on earth! good will from
Heaven!"
Sing that white-robed angel band;
"Peace on earth! good will from
Heaven!"
Echoes over all the land.
O thou God of past and present!
O thou light of every soul!
We will chant thee deathless praises
While eternity shall roll.
————
The following poem, portraying a singular
Indian custom, was given through Mrs. J. H. Conant, in the Melodeon, in this
city, Sunday evening, March 11, 1866.
The poem was composed in spirit-life, and
delivered by Metoka, mother of Winona, the subject of the poem, and wife of the
sachem Wanandago, whose hunting-grounds, over two hundred years ago, included
the territory on which the city of Boston is built, and his wigwam was at the
brow of the hill where the State House now stands.
APPENDIX
TO PREFACE. 21
The chairman read a brief legend,
furnished by an Indian spirit, which explains the custom that often doomed the
fairest daughters of the red man to a cruel fate, as follows:—
"The white man has customs; so has
the Indian. What the Indian thinks right, the white man thinks wrong. What the
white man thinks right, the Indian thinks wrong. Many moons ago, where the
white man now hunts his game, the Indian hunted his. Your big books will tell
you that. When any two or more tribes were at war, the weaker, after two suns'
fasting, would come together in council, led by a sachem, to see what the Great
Spirit would tell them to do with their young squaws (for it was the custom of
the conquering tribe to make slaves of all the young squaws, killing the old,
who should fall into their hands). At the rising of the sun, after the council
had been held all night, it was the custom to call the fairest squaw of the
tribe and give her the right to choose between death at the hands of her nearest kin, or the risk
of being captured and enslaved by the conquering tribe. Her decision was believed to be the
voice of the Great Spirit, from which there was no appeal.
"Winona, the subject of the simple
poem which follows this introductory, was the first-born of the house of
Wanandago, who was at the time sachem* of the tribe. The hunting-grounds of
this tribe were here,
where your many wigwams now stand; and the wigwam of the sachem was at the brow
of the hill where your great wigwam of council now stands. When the white man
came from over the water, he hunted the Indian's game, and gave him no return.
He planted his corn on the sacred mounds of the Indian, and shed no
tears—but he gave him his fire-water! And so the Indian grew hot against the
white man, and he determined to make war with him. It was then the Great Spirit
spoke to Winona, and the arrow of Wanandago sent her to the land of sunshine
and clear water, where Metoka, the fair squaw of Wanandago had gone at the
coming of Winona."
———
* The word sachem, with the Indian, means
prophet, or spiritual leader.
22 APPENDIX
TO PREFACE.
Then Metoka, in clear tones, poured
forth, in sweet, musical cadences, the story of
THE
INDIAN MAIDEN WINONA.
In
the sunlight, in the starlight,
In the moons of long ago—
Ere the virgin soil of Shawmut
Quivered 'neath the white man's plow;
Ere the great lakes and the rivers
Listened to the white man's song;
Ere the Father of all Waters
Bore them in his strong arms on;
On from distant lands and wigwams,
Where the sun from slumber comes,
Where the warriors hear the war-whoop
In the voices of the drums,
Lived Winona—child of Nature!
First-born, beauteous, dark-browed maid,
At whose coming fair Metoka,
Where the flowers bloom, was laid.
Grew Winona, strong and beauteous,
Fairer than the flowers of spring;
And the echo of her sweet voice
Made the hills and valleys ring.
Did the red deer pass her wigwam,
Soon it quivered on the plain –
For the arrow of Winona
Never left its bow in vain!
Sixteen times the snow had fallen,
Sixteen times the sun grew dim,
Since the warriors and the maidens Sung
Metoka's funeral hymn.
Then the strange voice of the white man
Rang through all our hunting-grounds;
And their swift feet never faltered
When they neared our sacred mounds!
APPENDIX
TO PREFACE. 23
All
our game their long guns hunted,
Quickly
making it their own;
Heeding
not the maiden's sighing,
Fearing
not the warrior's frown!
Then
the voice of Wanandago
Fell
in accents soft and low,
Asking,
would the fair Winona
To
the land of sunlight go?
Quick
the answer came, like shadows
Filling
all his soul with night
"I
will go, O mighty sachem,
Where
the. sky is always bright;
"Where
our hunting-grounds are greater;
Where
the water's always clear;
Where
the spirits of our fathers
Chant
the red man's hymn of cheer!"
Soon
the warriors and the maidens
Sing
again their funeral song!
For
the spirit of Winona
To
the land of light was borne!
But
to-night she comes to greet you,
Comes
in meekness, comes in love;
And
with gentle hands would lead you
To
that land of light above;
Where
no white man robs the Indian;
Where
no more the sun grows dim;
Where
the warriors and the maidens
Chant
no more their funeral hymn;
In
that land where stars are brighter,
Where
the moonbeams softly fall,
And
the great Manito's blessing
Like
the sunlight's over all;
There
the Indian holds his council,
And
his thoughts grow great and strong—
As
the angels teach forgiveness
For
the white man's fearful wrong.
24 APPENDIX
TO PREFACE.
Here
his tomahawk and arrows
Rest
beneath your wigwams grand;
There
his soul drinks in the wisdom
Of
the glorious spirit-land.
Fare
you well, ye pale-faced mortals,
Till
in council you shall stand
Face
to face with fair Winona
In
the Indian's Morning-Land.
———
INDIAN
SPIRITS' LEVEE.
A pleasant
affair took place, a few evenings since, in Watertown, at the residence
of Mr. Charles H. Crowell (Kanagawah Lodge—so named by Indian
spirit-friends), at present the home of Mrs. J. H. Conant. Shortly after Mrs.
Conant located there, her Indian spirit-friends, who have enjoyed the privilege
for years of communicating to mortals through her organism, expressed a desire
to give some of their' pale-faced" friends a reception at the lodge.
Consent being given, the time assigned for the gathering was Friday, August 17,
1866; and a select company of between 50 and 60 ladies and gentlemen responded
to the invitation. Shortly after the friends had assembled in the drawing-room,
Mrs. Conant was entranced by
Winona, a young Indian girl (subject of the
poem given by Metoka, through Mrs. Conant, at the Melodeon last March), who
greeted each one of the party in her peculiar manner, and then quietly retired,
to give
Starlight, another Indian girl, an opportunity to
greet the “pale-faces" present. She was very modest and retiring in
her manners, winning the hearts of all. She was known in earth-life as Naonta,
and was educated at an English school in Canada. She is said to have been very
beautiful. To this spirit was granted the privilege of welcoming the guests,
which was gracefully done in the following characteristic Indian style:—
APPENDIX
TO PREFACE. 25
"Pale-faces, Naonta, in behalf of
her people, welcomes you to the lodge of the Indians. Their hearts are warm
towards you, and their hands are full of blessings. May yours be so towards
them. They meet you from the mountains and the valleys, from the lakes and the
rivers, and they ask to learn of you, and in turn will teach you much of the
great hunting-ground, where you must come when you sleep as they have. When
Naonta has gone, Metoka will come, greeting you with her singing talk."
All hearts seemed touched with the
simplicity and beauty of this brief address, and evidently wished to hear more
from her; but she gave way to the sprightly and loquacious
Spring-flower, who chatted in the liveliest manner with
"the squaws and braves" for some time. Then bidding them “good
moon," she retired, when the calm and dignified
Metoka, mother of Winona, assumed control, and
gave utterance to the following
POEM.
Like the
music of the waters,
Like
the sighing of the trees,
Like
some soft and gentle whisper
Floating
on the evening breeze,
Come
the dead, the long departed,
To
the island of the blest,
Breathing
forth unnumbered blessings,
Telling
of a land of rest.
Not
the rest that knows no action,
Like
the silence of the tomb,
But
the rest that comes from toiling,
Toiling
for the yet to come.
Come
they when your fires are lighted,
Lighted
on your wigwam walls,
And
their dew of inspiration
Over
every spirit falls,—
26 APPENDIX
TO PREFACE.
Falls
like moonlight on the waters,
With
a soft and silvery light,
Or
like starlight through the shadows,
Robbing
of its gloom the night.
From
the lakes and from the rivers,
Over
plains and mountains tall,
Many
braves and many maidens
Come
in answer to your call.
Are
they welcome to your wigwam?
Will
your kindly greeting fall,
Like
your winter's spotless blanket,
Over
black, and red, and all?
When
the Lodge of Kanagawah
Breathes
its blessings far and wide,—
Over
mountains, over valleys,
Over
death's resistless tide,—
Then
the great Manitou's blessing
Enters
at the open door,
And
your dead, the long departed,
Fold
you in their arms once more.
August, 1866.
THE
STAR OF HOPE.
[DEDICATED TO TELULAR,*' THE STAR OF
KANAGAWAH LODGE, BY MRS. HEMANS.]
Bright star
of hope! still let your beams
Of
radiant beauty, shine
Upon
the enfranchised souls who dwell
Beyond
the stream of time.
———
* "Telular" is the name Mrs.
Conant received from her Indian spirit-friends. With the Indian it means a
something to see by or through. “Kanagawah Lodge" is the name the
Indians have given Mrs. Conant's present home at Watertown.
"Kanagawah" signifies teacher; and as Mrs. Conant has done much
towards enlightening and elevating the Indians, it will be readily perceived
that the name is not inappropriate.
APPENDIX
TO PREFACE. 27
O,
give to them your hand of love
Across
the rolling flood,
And
lead them back, through Nature's bowers,
To
wisdom and to God.
Fling
back the shadows by your light,
As
Moses smote the rock,
Till
every soul within your sphere
Shall
feel the mighty shock.
Enter
within the cypress shade,
And
rob it of its gloom,
Gilding
with radiance all divine
The
portals of the tomb.
Stand
close beside the parting soul,
Who
fears to cross the tide,
Leading
beyond all earthly pain,
Where
loving friends abide.
Strengthen
the weak and wounded souls
Who
falter in the way,
And
lead them back to wisdom's path
By
truth's unerring ray.
Be
thou a guide, a beacon light,
To
wanderers on the shore;
And
be contented with thy lot
Forever—evermore.
So
shall your heaven on earth begin
By
every deed of love,
While
angels sing your song of praise
In
worlds of light above.
BANNER, August 18, 1866.
ANNA
CORA WILSON.
"BIRDIE," the lovely
spirit-daughter of Mr. and Mrs. L. B. Wilson, who had manifested several times
on previous occasions, after obtaining control of the medium, took up a bouquet
of delicate flowers that lay upon the table, and turning
28 APPENDIX
TO PREFACE.
to her mother, who sat near by, placed
her hand on her head, stooped down, and kissing her fervently, said,
"'Dear mother, I thank you for these
beautiful flowers." She then proceeded to address her in the following
touchingly significant lines:
"BIRDIE'S" POEM.
I
sleep not, dear mother, where
daisies bloom,
And
wild birds warble their hymns of praise;
Where
the stars look down through the silent gloom,
And
the cypress nods to the passing breeze.
No,
no; I am living beyond the tomb,
Where
the shadows of time no longer fall,
Where
the angel Death has never come,
For
eternal life is the gift to all.
Yet
I have not left you; I am not dead,
Though
a voice is missed from the trio band,—
Though
tenantless stands my little bed,
And
you miss the clasp of "Birdie's" hand.
I
am living, and loving, and waiting for you
In
my beautiful home on the other side,
Where
legions of angels, with fond hearts and true,
Are
waiting for loved ones to cross the tide.
Through
the long, dreary hours of sadness and pain,
When
your brow with the tempest of fever was tossed,
Your
“Birdie" was with you; yes, with you again;
Though
the world in its blindness says “Birdie" is lost.
———
The following lines were addressed to
Mrs. L. B. Wilson (Cora's mother), in tones of endearing affection, accompanied
with such tender caresses as to give living evidence that the spirit, after
leaving its mortal form, retains all its love for those it left on
earth:—
APPENDIX
TO PREFACE. 29
A POEM BY “BIRDIE" (ANNA CORA
WILSON).
Mother,
dear mother! from the land of the blest,
Where
the earth-weary spirit finds comfort and rest,
I
have come with my buds and blossoms so sweet,
And
I lay them, as soul-gifts, at your tired feet.
Be
joyous, dear mother, and banish the clouds,
And
linger no longer 'mid cypress and shrouds;
But
lift up your eyes to that fair land of rest,
Where
Cora, your “Birdie," has builded your nest.
———
The four following effusions were from
"Birdie," through Mrs. Conant—
SONG OF THE AUTUMN WIND.
I
come, I come, my watch to keep
On
the cold New England shore –
To
diamonds sow where the flowers grew,
And
the summer winds sing no more.
I
wail and I weep where the daisies sleep,
On
the graves of your early dead;
And
I sing a low song through the tall pine trees,
O'er
the soldier's nameless bed.
I
chant a sad strain, or a wild refrain,
Through
every city and town;
And
I chase the green leaves from all the trees,
Or
I change their greenness to brown.
I
roar on the mountains, I bind all the fountains,
And
enter the poor man's home;
While
the babe lies sleeping, and the mother sits weeping,
I
join in her cry of alone—all alone!
Then
I speed away o'er the ocean's spray,
Where
the loved and lost are sleeping;
Where
Neptune's band, with relentless hand,
Their
watch of death are keeping.
30 APPENDIX
TO PREFACE.
I
kiss the pale cheek, in that lone retreat,
While
the sea-birds are loudly screaming;
Where
life and death have together met,
And
the sleeper knows no dreaming.
I
scatter the snows, as every one knows,
Like
a carpet of silver sheen,
And
I bind all the streams with glittering chains,
Where
once the lilies have been.
Farewell!
farewell! I go—I go
From
the cold New England shore;
For
the Winter winds have begun to blow,
And
the Autumn leaves fall no more!
For,
far away, over river and bay,
In
my home beyond the sea,
The
mild-eyed seal and swift gazelle
Are
keeping their watch for me.
———
BIRDIE'S
LAST OF EARTH.
Hushed were
the voices and muffled the tread
Of
kind friends who lingered near “Birdie's" death-bed;
But they saw not the angels who entered
unheard,
And
dipped in heaven's chalice the wings of their bird.
And
they whispered so soft that you heard not a sound—
"Come,
Birdie, your wings shall no longer be bound!"
Then,
quick as the eagle's eye drinks in the light,
Your
Birdie was free from mortality's night.
And
now from the heights of Eternity's plains,
From
the land where Death comes not, and Night never reigns,
Your
Birdie returns, on swift pinions of love,
With
fresh-gathered buds from her bright home above.
When
the world, in its coldness, says, "Birdie's dead,"
O
tell them, dear mother, I've only been led,
By
the hands of the angels, away from the night,
Away
from earth's darkness to heaven's clear light.
APPENDIX
TO PREFACE. 31
BIRDIE'S NEST.
In
the bowers of love supernal
There your Birdie's built her nest,
For the Father's hand eternal
Led her from the earth's unrest.
Hear you not my song of gladness,
Swelling o'er life's troubled sea?
Surely then it were but madness,
E'er to mourn my loss to thee.
I have gained a deathless morning—
All my mortal woes are o'er,
And the angels now are crowning
Me with gems from heaven's store.
Cease your mourning, dearest mother,
Let tears no more for Birdie fall;
God is love—there is no other
And His mercy's over all.
When the shades of Death are falling,
And your mortal day is o'er,
And you hear the angels calling
You from earth to our bright shore
–
Then your Birdie's song of welcome
All your fears shall chase away,
And the bitter buds of morning
Blossom into endless day.
November 9, 1863.
———
BIRDIE'S
VIGIL.
I
am here, dearest mother, though
the summer has flown,
And
the roses their beauty have shed;
For
the world in its blindness determines alone,
That
the soul in its freedom, is dead!
32 APPENDIX
TO PREFACE.
I
am here to watch over and keep you from harm,
To
guide you from darkness to light;
I am here, and I'll wait till the
morning bells chime,
Proclaiming
the end of the night.
And
then through the bright shining way of the stars,
Where
the saints and the angels have trod,
I
will lead you away from the earth and its cares,
To
the spiritual temple of God.
From Theodore Parker, Sept. 2, 1868.
Controlling Spirit.—In answer to a question which has
been propounded to us at this place, but has not been answered, a selection
will be read by the author, who has been absent from the body of flesh some
fourteen years, hoping that it will answer the needs of that sorrowing spirit,
and assist her to think in the right direction. The question is this: "Is
it right for me, or for any one, to seek to obtain a permanent home on
earth?" She further adds, "I have all my life sought for it, but in
vain, and I have come to think that it is not right for me to seek longer for a
home on earth. Still I am in doubt. O angels, give me light."
THE BETTER LAND.
" For here have we no continuing
city, but we seek one to come."
Heb. xiii. 14.
No city here, no constant habitation
Wherein to lay our throbbing hearts and
fears;
No city here, where sorrow and vexation
Can enter not, and bring their weight of
cares;
No home of rest, where change can enter
never;
No home which time can crumble not away;
No love-wrought ties that death can fail
to sever; No spot where darkness follows not the day!
214 FLASHES
OF LIGHT
We trust in friendship—like the
tossing ocean
The waves of time can soon deface the
spell;
We trust in love—a word, a look, or
motion,
Can bear away the dreams we love so well;
We trust in fame, and find it but a
bubble,
Whose tints, when grasped, fade silently
away;
We trust in wealth—'tis on a sea of
trouble;
It taketh wings and flieth in a day!
We have no home, no region free from
sorrow –
Poor, houseless wanderers in a desert
drear –
No place to call our own, no sweet
to-morrow,
Where pleasure comes unsullied by a tear.
No home? no home? On drooping pinion
weary,
Like the lone dove that wandered from the
ark,
Must we roam on, still sad, unblessed,
and dreary,
Without a hope, a day-beam in the dark?
Ah, no! ah, no! From heaven's own broad
expansion
A spirit whispers, through the shadowy
blue,
"The Father has full many a spacious
mansion;"
There is a home, a happy home for you
–
A home where death and time can never
enter;
It stands uncrumbled by the flight of
years,
A stream of bliss is glittering in its
centre;
'Tis God's own city, unalloyed by tears.
There, in that home, no throb of deep
dejection
Can check the gladness of the joyful
heart;
But sweetly bound in God's own true
affection,
Nothing can rend those clinging ties
apart.
We have no home on earth, but sadly
driven
Adown time's stream, where sorrow leaves
a trace,
FROM
THE SPIRIT-LAND. 215
Hope on, sad soul; there is a home in
heaven
A constant, firm, and sure abiding-place.
Let us not mourn, though life may brine
us sorrow;
Soon can we cast aside the cumbrous clay.
We have a hope, a glorious hope to-morrow
–
A home in heaven, a home of constant day.
We have no home on earth; then let us
sever
Our thoughts from earth and its alluring
love,
And list the angel's voice, that
whispereth ever,
There is a home of constancy above.