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The Meeting Of Spirits.

by Kate Seymour Maclean

From out the dark of death, before the gates

Flung wide, that open into paradise--

More radiant than the white gates of the morn--

A human soul, new-born,

Stood with glad wonder in its luminous eyes,

For all the glory of that blessed place

Flowed thence, and made a halo round the face--

gentle, and strong with the rapt faith that waits

And faints not: sweet with hallowing pain

The face was, as a sunset after rain,

with a grave tender brightness. Now it turned

From the white splendours where God's glory burned,

And the long ranks of quiring cherubim--

Each with wing-shaded eyelids, near the throne,

Who sang--and ceased not--the adoring hymn

Of Holy, Holy! And the cloud of smoke

Went up from the waved censers, with the prayers

Of saints, that wafted outward blessing-freighted broke

Around him standing at the gate alone.

All down the radiant slope of golden stairs,

By which he climbed so late from earth to heaven,

It rolled impalpable--a fragrant cloud;

And still, turned from the Alleluias loud,

Beyond the portal-guarding angels seven,

He listened earthward, for a voice--a sound

Out of the dark that spread heneath profound.

No wind of God stirred in that cloudy land

That bordered all the River's thither side;

To his that called no voice responsive cried,

Or cleft the dark with flash of answering hand.

And soft the while, sheathed, as it were, within

The noise of heaven's rejoicing, to him stole

Beloved voices, long to earth a sole

Remembered sweetness only; sacred kept

As reliquaries are that guard from sin,

And wake the holy aim which else had slept.

How yearned his heart to those long parted ones

The amaranth, and the sacred flower which grew

A saintly lily by the jasper wall,

Making light shadows on those wondrous stones,

As the wind touched its slender stems and tall,

Turned not to sunward more divinely true,

Than his most worshipping soul to that which made

The light of heaven.

But now the nether shade

Grew luminous with white ascending wings,

And radiant arms of angels, who upbore

With tender hands another soul new-born,

Fairer than that last star whose bearing flings

Another beauty on the brow of morn.

Nearer the lovely vision rose, and more

Aerial clear each moment to his eyes,

Who stood in ecstacy of glad surprise,

And looks of joyous welcome, while the air was stirred

With the swift winnowing plumes approaching.

This I heard,

And only this,--"Oh! haste thee, spirit blest,

For thee and me remains at length the rest,

The welcome end of life's long toilsome road,

That leads us to our Father and our God."

And--"Oh beloved, is it thou indeed,

Hast reached before me these fair heavenly lands,

Who taught thine infant lips, with reverent heed

To say Our Father with small upraised hands:

How lovely are thine eyes, that have no pain,

And thy worn cheek, that keeps no travel-stain,

From mid-noon labour called to thy reward;

While I, at evening, a forgotten sheaf

Still left afield, in mingled trust and grief,

Waited the footsteps of our harvest Lord."

I heard no more--for wave succeeding wave--

A sea of intermittent music swelled and grew,

And filled the dome of heaven, all sharply cut

With spires of glittering crystal: all the land

Throbbed with the pulse of music keen, which clave

A shining path before them: hand in hand--

With their rapt faces toward the throne--the two

Went in together--and the gates were shut.