  Felicia Hemans—Spirit Dictations of Music. In compliance with the advice and wishes of the friend who has aided me in putting together the scattered parts of my volume, I now proceed to wind it up with what I might call a sample assortment of “Incidents” out of my Spiritualistic experience. This was not within my original scheme of the work, but in the course of several months of intimate intercourse with him, there naturally arose in conversation frequent allusions to such reminiscences, leading me to tell him, under his intelligent interrogation, the story of them. The result was that he came to insist that some collection of them would constitute a useful as well as interesting addition to my “Missing Link.” He therefore embraced many opportunities of returning to them, and drawing from me repetitions of the narratives, and jotting down notes, from which he then insisted that I should write them out, with a little kind assistance from him. This collection might easily have been greatly enlarged. FELICIA HEMANS—SPIRIT DICTATION OF MUSIC.The following is a beautiful and curious experience which came one evening at Rochester, in the early days of our mediumship: Maggie and I were sitting alone in my cozy little parlor in Troup Street, enjoying ourselves by a warm fire while the pouring rain and howling winds outside assured us “GAGCBAGAGEFEFAGFEFGFEDAGGCEDGGCB These letters could not, of course, be construed into words, and I cast them aside saying, “This must be the Spirit of Johnny Story,” a simple boy whom we had known when living, who could never be taught to read. The alphabet was again called for and the message given by the Spirit was, “Apply the letters to your piano.” On doing so I recognized in them, to my surprise and delight, a sweet and tender melody. I was then told to set the music to “Haunted Ground” in Mrs. Hemans’s Poems, but with the variation of changing “Haunted” to “Hallowed” in the last verse. Professor J.J. Watson has kindly arranged the accompaniment for the organ and piano, as on the next page. I have always considered this one of the most beautiful and interesting tests I have ever received. It certainly was not mind-reading. The letters as given had of course conveyed no sense to me, nor any idea of musical notes. In connection with the music thus given for the poem with its altered name, I presume that it is proper to reproduce the poem itself. HAUNTED GROUND.And slight, withal, may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside forever—it may be a sound, A tone of music, summer eve, or spring, A flower—the wind—the ocean—which shall wound Striking the electric chain, wherewith we are darkly bound. —Byron. THE HAUNTED GROUND.—MRS. HEMANS.Yes, it is haunted, this quiet scene, Fair as it looks, and all softly green; Yet fear thou not, for the spell is thrown, And the might of the shadow’s on me alone. Have I not, under these whisp’ring leaves, Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves? Shadows yet unto which life seem’d bound, And is it not—is it not haunted ground? Have I not lived ’midst these lonely dells, And loved, and sorrowed, and heard farewells, And learn’d in my own deep soul to look, And tremble before that mysterious book? Have I not, under these whispering leaves, Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves? Shadows—yet unto which life seemed bound, And is it not—is it not haunted ground? Must I not hear what thou hearest not, Troubling the air of this sunny spot? Is there not something to none but me Told by the rustling of every tree? Song hath been here—with its flow of thought, Love—with its passionate visions fraught; Death—breathing stillness and sadness round— And is it not—is it not haunted ground? Are there no phantoms, but such as come By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb?— A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze Can summon up mightier far than these! But I may not linger amidst them here! Lovely they are, and yet things to fear; Passing and leaving a weight behind, And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind. Away, away, that my soul may soar, As a free bird of blue skies once more, Here from its wing it may never cast The chains by those Spirits brought back from the past. Doubt it not—smile not—but go thou, too, Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew— Where thou hast prayed at thy mother’s knee, Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free; Go thou, when life unto thee is changed, Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged; When from the idols thy heart hath made, Thou hast seen the colors of glory fade; Oh! painfully then, by the wind’s low sigh, By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup’s dye, By a thousand tokens of sight and sound, Thou wilt feel thou art treading on hallowed ground. |
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