realms.
Sleepless are their eyes and piercing,
Terrible they are in battle;
Nothing can uphold against them.
They are clad in mail of pure white,
Brilliant and of dazzling splendor;
Helmets have they, white and burnished,
Feathery white plumes in them waving;
Brilliant also are their breastplates,
And their shields, with ‘Love’ engraven
On the front in golden letters,
Are most gorgeous in beholding
When the light streams full upon them;
And destruction is the weapon
They employ to guard the city;

Awful is the havoc thereby
To the foe who dares approach them.
Now before the golden gateway,
Which with massive bars is builded,
Stands the pilgrim with his escort;
And they sound a mighty trumpet,
That the strains in thrilling grandeur
Flow sonorous through the kingdom.
Then behold the keeper cometh,
Who the gateway ever keepeth,
To unfold the golden barrings;
And he throws the gate wide open,
And the pilgrim enters therein
Now into the holy regions.
There a band of seraphs meet him,
Chosen from the ranks around them,
Guide him to the shining white throne,
Where the King in glory sitteth.
And the holy King says, ‘Welcome,
Welcome to you, pilgrim, brother!’
And he bids an angel bring him—
Bring him royal robes and robe him,
Garments rich, and white, and lovely,
And a golden crown to crown him.
While the empyrean minstrels rising,
All in flowing garments vested,

Some with harps and some with timbrels,
Some with lutes and some with trumpets,
All in goodly order mingled,
In the skill of gay perfection;
Far the minstrel band extendeth
Like a wilderness of grandeur.
As a sea of flowing white waves
Mingled up with diamond ripples;
As the moon on sparkling waters,
Comes the light from glowing beacons,
Dancing on their crowns of glory,
Far and near redounding, flowing
In a thousand dazzling colors,
Like unto a flood of crystal.
Silent are they all and heedful
While the leader on his tower stands,
High amid the radiant brightness,
Till his silver wand is raiséd;
Then for music every trumpet,
Every lute, and every timbrel,
Every harp is strung and ready,
And for songs wait all the voices.
Lo! it falls, and floods melodious
Flow from every voice united,
Rise from every lute and timbrel,
Stream from every harp and trumpet.

Noble and majestic cadence,
Full of might and full of sweetness;
Like tremendous thunders rolling,
Rumbling in their strength and grandeur;
Sweet as nectar, which is pouréd
From the cup which Juno holdeth.
Far and near the echoes answer,
From the vaults and arches flying,
In the distant spaces rising
Over thrones, and crowns, and mansions,
Breaking o’er the vitreous white throne;
Like a music-meteor falling,
Casting down its charms around it,
Ever softest, sweetest, fairest;
Softly as the summer showereth,
From its fragrant bosom, largely,
Dews upon the sleeping meadow.
This is honor to the pilgrim,
Welcome to his seat of glory;
Songs of joy that he is landed
From the perils of the journey
To be one for ever with them.
Now beside the throne he standeth,
In his bosom gladness flowing.
He hath now been crowned and vested;
And the King, arising, speaketh:

‘Guide him to his seat of glory,
To the mansion he hath gainéd.’
Then, as magic fell amid them,
Every voice is mute and silent,
Every sound subdued resideth,
Every strain on faltering pinion
From its gaysome course alighteth;
Still and peaceful is the white throng,
Calmness, as in death, prevaileth.
Now he sits enthroned amid them,
And again the strains are wakened,
Mighty as to storms of thunder
Born as from the womb of calmness,
Rising as from death released.
Now his voice is with them mingled
In the songs, and hymns, and anthems,
Which shall evermore continue
Throughout all this land of Blisses,
Where is love the only bondage,
Love the mighty power which holds them.”
     Thuswise speaketh Sero, telling
Of the land whereto the wicket
On his right hand gives admission.
But far different is the story
Which he giveth of the regions,
Whence the wicket on his left hand

To the wanderer gives admission.
Spoken thus his vivid brief is:
“He, who by this wicket enters,
Loseth hope and loseth courage,
Meeteth gloomy fears and terrors,
Misery and anguish rising
In their wildest forms about him;
And upon the distance looming
Awful terrors, monsters hideous,
Scenes and shadows dark and dreary.
Now the stifled groan of murder,—
Now the seething moan of anguish,—
Now bewailings in bereavement,
And lamentings of the ruined,
Loud, and painful, and laborious,
In an awful concert mingled,
Flow upon his ear bewildered,
As in toil he wanders weary
In the crowd, yet lost and lonely,
To the dreaded pit of terrors,
And its dismal dens and dungeons,
Damp, and stifled, and obnoxious,
Burning with eternal anger
And with lurid flames of vengeance.
Lo! aghast, he starts in terror,
And anon doth sink in anguish,

Weeping for the talents wasted,
And the warnings he despiséd;
And for hope he looks and longeth
In a deep and fervent longing,
But it is a vain desire;
Nothing but an awful doom sits
Frowning on his pains and terrors.
Onward, on he fast is driven,
Through a rugged path and perilous;
Rising on the hills above him,
Roaring thunders roll and rumble,
With a mighty noise and terror;
All things at their greatness tremble.
Sheets of flame, in livid fierceness,
Sweep and fly in wildest swiftness;
O’er the rugged heights ascending,
Cast their lurid glares upon them,
In their course revealing further
Of the dangers hid in darkness.
And beneath him gulphs are yawning,
Greedy to devour, are gaping;
Torrents deep within them roaring,
Lashing up their foamy billows;
With the laving of their forces
All the pathway shakes and trembles.
Brutes, in hungry anger raving,

Prowl from dens, and caves, and caverns,
Mingle with the ghosts and spectres,
Lusting for a bloody surfeit.
Reptiles, subtle and obnoxious,
Crawl, and welter, and recoil them
On the path in slimy matters,
Reeking with a poisoned odor,
Darting poisons to molest him.
Arrows from the towers are flying,
Shafts of flame and showers of fire,
Sweeping on through clouds and vapors,
Like unto a storm of hailstones
Driven by a mighty tempest.
Sadder and more bitter feelings,
Deeper, darker fears betake him,
As, above the groans around him,
Coming from the pit of terrors,
Bitter wailings, mournful cryings,
Rise and fill the air with anguish.
Now in view the dingy walls stand,
In their black and dismal bearing,
Of the gloomy pit of terrors;
Gloomy, like a loathsome dungeon.
Now before the gate he standeth,
Worn, and weary,