l shielded be;
And if famine stare us in the face, I'll jerk my heart for thee.
So, clad in noiseless moccasons the feet of the years shall fall;
And I will cherish thee, my love, till Time shall scalp us all.

LITERARY NOTICES.

POEMS FROM THE INNER LIFE. By LIZZIE DOTEN. Boston:
Wm. White & Co., 'Banner of Light' Office, 158 Washington street, New
York: A. J. Davis, 274 Canal street.

This book was written from what is called 'the plane of spiritual
experience' of which we, being neither clairvoyant, clairaudient, nor
clairsentient, know positively nothing.' Miss Doten says: 'I claim both
a general and particular inspiration. I know that many sincere and
earnest souls will decide, in the integrity of their well-trained
intellects, that my claim to an intercourse with the invisible world is
an extravagant assumption, and has no foundation in truth. I cannot
conscientiously deny that in the mysteries of my inner life I have been
acted upon decidedly and directly by disembodied intelligences, and this
sometimes by an inspiration characteristic of the individual, or by a
psychological influence similar to that whereby mind acts upon mind in
the body. Many of the poems were given by direct spirit influence before
public audiences. For many of them I could not obtain the authorship,
but for such as I could the names are given.'

Strange statements truly, and yet we see no reason to doubt that Miss
Doten fully believes them to be simple records of facts known to
herself. We do not doubt her truth and good faith; but we confess
ourselves puzzled with the contradictory and inconsequent phenomena of
modern spiritualism. These developments never bring any accession to our
knowledge. In addition to the curious circumstances attending the
creation of these poems, many of them are very beautiful. In those
purporting to have been dictated by the spirit of Poe, the similarity of
style is quite remarkable. His alliterations, his frequent assonances
and rhymes, his chiming and ever-musical rhythms are wonderfully well
reproduced. But has he learned nothing new to tell us in those 'supernal
spheres'? Has he struck upon no new path in those weird regions, grasped
no fresh and startling thought to weave into the perfect music of his
lines? Nay, has he learned no new tunes, chimes, or rhythms 'where the
angels' feet make music over all the starry floor'? Could he not lift
for us the veil of Isis? The 'inspiration' fro