Many of Cora’s lectures include poetry composed on the spot. As I’m not a scholar of 19th century poetry, I can only accept the abundant commentary of her contemporaries that her audiences were receptive and impressed by her poetic output. In November 26, 1870, Cora took a stanza from Longfellow’s poem Footsteps of Angels as a starting point for her poetic muse’s thoughts on that same theme. Below is a side by side comparison to Longfellow’s poem, for you to judge for yourself.
Cora Richmond
“When the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more.”—Longfellow*.
And their eyes of starry splendor
Beam like sapphires on my soul,
Flashing glances pure and tender
From the spirit’s shining goal;
Tenderly their fond arms twining
Round my weak and weary form;
Lovingly they soothe my spirit,
Shielding me from sorrow’s storm.
All the tear-drops shed in anguish,
Change beneath their smiles to gems,
And they say our souls shall wear them
In immortal diadems.
With their holy spells around me,
Time and sense all fade away,
And I pass the dreamy portal
To the realms of endless day.
Rapturous music thrills above me,
Rarest odors float around,
And the tones of those who love me
Cheer me with the witching sound.
Of the sweet words, so endearing,
Uttered in the “long ago,”
But which live in heaven forever,
Recompense for all life’s woe.
Ever they repeat the story,
Chanting anthems all the while,
Up the golden mount of glory,
Neath the Father’s loving smile;
Clasping still my eager spirit;
In their loving, true embrace,
Till each line of earthly sorrow
Banished is from heart and face.
Thus baptized, in that bright fountain,
With sweet flowers in my hand,
Downward from the spirit’s mountain,
Downward from that glowing land,
Floats my soul into its prison,
Now no more in fetters tied,
For through life and love and labor
Is the spirit glorified.
Ever toiling, ever striving,
Angels win us with their love,
Till we join them in the mansions
Fashioned for our souls above.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;
He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!
And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.
With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.
Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit’s voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.
Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!