Sinking his name and memory in darkest night.

VI.

I rise again above the woes of earth,
Like unchained bird, seeking my native air.
Men seldom see their fellow-creatures' worth,
But blot sweet nature's page, however fair.
Away, my soul, and seek thy nobler state,
Where loving angels breathe their softest prayer,
Where sweetest seraphs for thy coming wait,
And ne'er suspicion's breath can pass the Golden Gate.




NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

_APPARITIONS_.


Returning one evening from a visit to a friend on earth, I was impelled
to take a route with which I was unfamiliar. It led me far beyond the
habitations of the city, into an open country whose surface was
diversified by sloping hills and broad valleys.

The sun was quite low in the horizon, and dark purple clouds, gathering
in the west, indicated an approaching storm. Anxious to reach my
spirit-home before such an event, I was nevertheless compelled to keep
within the earth's atmosphere.