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else, and I'll fly through Nature's vast domain to do thy bidding, - to bless thee, loved and treasured one. Perhaps the humblest instruments only may be at my command: do not disdain them. The Father's love overshadoweth all. In love alone can I approach thee, to touch the springs of thy own love-nature. Yet ever I am near: in thine orisons and meeting, I sing solemn symphonies, and chant the high Te Deum. Like the sparkling waters round a golden isle would I circle thee with sleepless vigils. Ever the burden of my song is love."
Here are some heart gems fresh from the fountain of love, written through the hand of the “Scribe.” None but a royal soul could pour out such an abundance of affectional wealth in the form of written speech :
“My beloved, as never before, I see the depth of thy soul's own fountain springs, for many thou hast known not as yet to thy consciousness, but which the bearing future shall reveal to thee in all their fullness. A beautiful gloss is seen on each flower as it comes from thy soul's garden to my own. I invite these precious tokens to a feast in my arbor of loves. Their utterances are swift-winged messengers from thy own soul's fountains. All wealths do command attention of thy own life. Now, a near survey of thy form — what do I behold? New garments of white; full robes of white! Come to me in those robes, my beloved. Content is the name of the fabric. It stands out before all the minds as the largest wealth one can be possessed of. Come to me, my beloved. Thy harp is in tune. The golden chords bid me banquet on soul foods. Command me in soul utterances to thy side, to give thee of those sweet surprises the angelhood do bestow on their chosen workers.
“Come to me from the working fields where thy forces are gathered to bestow good gifts, then thy whole love is as one life of golden hues, transforming earth loves into celestial glories. Beside thy form, my beloved, I walk daily, awaking to a knowledge of that larger wealth which yet lieth potential in our lives. Our waking hours shall be called the rosy dawns, which delight the sense of those who see no hope in life, who
meet but desolation on every walk of life. Our waking hours shall bless the lives of the needy. Of what value our sleeping hours? My beloved, thy own voice answereth. In visions we will go afar, find those rare paintings whose deep colorings say, 'Life can be found of the full fruitions. Dost feed the famishing with paintings? Thy own love for the artistic, the holy, the beautiful, answereth that all ways of love are health-giving to the needy ones of life. Our whole hours in life shall be disposed in order, that holiest harvest blooms shall rest on all forms. ..
A home-love are we. One union known, which time will perfect in all its beaming light of holiness. Not alone do we live for our own building up. A blessed thought we are united in holiest loves of the universal. We are not found with bread in our hands for our own lives alone when all others are famishing. Out on the broad waste of waters out on the arid lands we fashion the temple of bounteously laden forces, and witness the increase until our eyes behold the golden harvest fields. We are as warriors battling on the lands. Our weapons are love and good will to all humanity. Our outposts are called home anchors for those who, wearing sandals, seek to enter the holiest domains of power.
Come to my soul rooms,' I said to the white-robed loves. Out of the spheral orbs thou wert conveyed to my own life. Out of the many-voiced fountain of celestial loves thou wert made as one form of power, to abide on earth lands for seasons; then to rise up on golden lights, to rest on the walls of the olden loves of the ages and dare to open caskets of the New Order.
“Bound forth on wings of morning, my beloved, and know my soul cometh to the home of the loves in an hour ye will know of; for when thy tones of love sweep those glorious chords of the golden harp, a fullness as of content will come; sandals of blue and gold will be placed upon thy feet, a mantle of stars will be placed upon thy form, and I will welcome thee to a holy home retreat."
“ 'Tis told somewhere in Eastern story
That those who love once bloomed as flowers On the same stem, amid the glory
Of Eden's green and fragrant bowers; And that, though parted oft by Fate,
Yet when the glow of life is ended, Each soul again shall find its mate,
And in one bloom again be blended.”
“Too late thy love has come to me,
It finds a rival in my breast. A higher love possesses me
That makes but mockery all the rest;
Stronger than death to call the soul
A NEW CYCLE
“ Life hath its harvest morns,
- Isa Gilbert. After four years of faithfui service in the Western Department of The Banner of Light, Mr. Peebles resigned his editorship, which the publishers of this stable journal reluctantly accepted. The relations between Mr. Peebles and the conductors of the Banner were most friendly and cordial. It was like separating a family. But finally, yielding with a most kindly spirit, the editor-in-chief, Luther Colby, penned a very beautiful tribute, fraught with tender words and a delicate appreciation of his editorial labors. In his valedictory, Mr. Peebles says:
“ Though life is fraught with varied changes,- meeting to-day, and parting to-morrow,— friendship, inhering in the human soul, never perishes. It is only a germinal bud on earth, blooming into a sweeter, fresher fragrance in heaven. Cordial in our nature, never can we forget the friends cherished, hands clasped, or acquaintances formed during the several years of our editorial connection with The Banner of Light.
“If competent of self-judgment, it has been our aim, our soul purpose each week, to be just and impartial,— to benefit humanity by elucidating the phenomena, the philosophy, and practical tendencies of Spiritualism. If, in so doing, a sarcastic word has carelessly slipped from our pen, or a severe thought taken form on the eighth page, wounding a sincere soul, we deeply regret it. 'To err is human; to forgive, divine.'
“ Not a link in the chain of mutual sympathy and good feeling between us lies severed or rusted. In the business capacity and strict integrity of Wm. White & Co., we have the most perfect confidence; and only the hope of wider usefulness inclines us to enter a somewhat different and more diffusive field of action."
The "field" to which he refers was the general supervision of another weekly, The Universe, published by H. N. F. Lewis, then in Chicago, subsequently in New York. In entering upon this task, to which he was so cordially invited, as editor-in-chief of this radical paper, he says:
“Freedom is the watchword of the age, and as applicable to periodicals as to speech; still, this freedom must not be allowed to degenerate into anarchy, nor liberty into wanton license. A brotherly interchange of the most diverse sentiments, however, is educational, beneficial, and beautiful in practical results. Full of faith in the divine consciousness of the race, and trusting much to the noble instincts and innate worth of each and all individuals constituting our common huinanity, we shall nevertheless bear the responsibility of only our own weekly productions. The thoughts that throb for birth into outer life shall flow from our pen in earnest words. If they warm the heart, gladden with sunshine the soul, and, removing the rubbish, plant roses along the rugged pathway of life, well; if not, they must move on, the guests of more receptive natures."
Some of Mr. Peebles's choicest gems of thought were published in The Universe. We make a few extracts:
“Senators, representatives, and other officials of high degree rise to power through political corruption. Is the candidate available? — that's the question. Court decisions are carried by intrigue. Money, or a valuable consideration as the equivalent, has become the underlying method of conducting public affairs. Will it pay? is the inquiry. Human integrity, justice, are among the 'lost graces' in political circles: the question is, “What will it cost to get the office, and what can I make out of it?' The late war intensified this demoralization. The back-brain inspiration, so thoroughly aroused by it, still lingers. . ..