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vol. 3, p. 192
H. P. Blavatsky Scrapbooks
from Adyar arhives of the International Theosophical Society
vol. 3 (1875-1878)


  • HPB note
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  • <Editors note>
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The Beginning

< author: Tappan, Cora L.V. >

In the Beginning was the Word ! What matchless power,
Shaping itself through Chaos with the swiftest thought !
Behold ! God in his place
Spoke unto Chaos face to face,
In the Beginning.
And the worlds by that mighty breath
Blossomed in space,
From Chaos and from Death,
In the Beginning.
And the germ s’eeping all silently, became a flower
With voting immortality.

The Word was Law. And atoms kindled into light,
And light became a song, for song is law
And harmony which sweep along,
In octaves through the spheres.
And lo ! God vibrant, with eternal hand,
Smote Chaos with a song of law,
Behold ! The world, without a flaw,
Traced upon leaf, or tree, or star, or man ;
One thought—one primal will—revealing
God's great plan,

Even now, as then, He stands within the space
Apart, and consecrated to the grace
Of God's good word.
Behold ! It issues thence,
Each thought becomes a recompense,
And like Creation in its cosmic sphere,
You hold the universe within your heart, and hear
The sigh, the moan.
These are but echoes of the ante-natal groan.

In the Beginning was the Word !
And by the primal law, and power,
And thought He shaped, the world was born—
The rock—the flower.
And man through the successive ages of his life
Resonant with song, with care, with strife,
Is but the subject of that primal Word
Which pierces, even as a pointed sword,
The depths of matter.

Lo ! The primal thought !
How pure and white it is !
Its rays are caught alone the prism of life,
Turned red and grey by human strife.
Even now, as then, God speaks in primal word,
One song of harmony is ever hearth.


Extracts from the Masque of Pandora

< author: Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth >

Death takes us by surprise,
And stays our hurrying feet;
The great design unfinished lies,
Our lives are incomplete. 

But in the dark unknown
Perfect their circles seem,
Even as a bridge's arch of stone
Is rounded in the stream. 

Alike are life and death,
When life in death survives,
And the uninterrupted breath
Inspires a thousand lives. 

Were a star quenched on high,
For ages would its light,
Still travelling downward from the sky,
Shine on our mortal sight. 

So when a great man dies,
For years beyond our ken,
The light he leaves behind him lies
Upon the paths of men.


River, that stealest with such silent pace
Around the City of the Dead, where lies
A friend who bore thy name, and whom these eyes
Shall see no more in his accustomed place,
Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace
And say good night, for now the western skies
Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise
Like damps that gather on a dead man's face.
Good night ! good night! as we so oft have said
Beneath this roof at midnight in the days
That are no more, and shall no more return.
Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed ;
I stay a little longer, as one stays
To cover up the embers that still burn.


< >


Lord Bacon a Spiritualist

< author: Sargent,Epes >

... <... continues on page 3-193 >