it?
Go, and captive make the number,
And their spirits hither bring me;
But their bodies can be portioned
To the monsters of the ocean.
Neptune I shall call and waken;
He will lend me storms and tempests,
Lightnings and mighty thunders,
Which shall in the mission aid thee,
Give an awful grandeur to it;
Like the flowing of great banners,
And as many torches blazing,
And the sounds of drums and trumpets,
Shall be storms, and flames, and thunder.”
So the mission goeth forthwith
O’er the still and tranquil waters;
And they waken slumbering Neptune,

Who advanceth storms and tempests;
And the waves rise up in anger,
Foam and hiss in reckless fury;
Thunders bellow martial music;
Lightnings flash their vivid torchlight.
Grand and mighty the procession!
Neptune, in majestic pomp, came
In his chariot, attended
By a myriad mystic beings,
To direct the storms and thunders,
And to rule the foaming billows.
Spake he thus unto the waters:
“Ope your gates, ye billows, open,
That great Sero’s host may enter
With the booty they have taken,
And the bodies of their captives,
Which shall in my caverns slumber,
In my rocky halls and grottos.”
Then the mighty gates were opened;
And they all went downward, down,
Down into the dark, cold waters,
With their cries and earnest prayers,
Wailings bitter and lamentings.
Woeful was the scene to witness:
Children clinging to their mothers,
Husbands in their wives’ embraces,

Brothers by their sisters holding,
Others running wild and madly,
Crying to their gods for succour;
Every heart in very terror
Quailing at the rising future.
But these cries cannot be answered;
They have sought too late for succour;
For the gates are closed upon them,
And the victors have their spirits,
Bearing to their princely Sero,
And their bodies are consignéd
To the halls of mighty Neptune.
Then did Sero take the spirits
As the mission brought them to him;
And for every one which entered
By the wicket on his right hand,
Leading to the land of gladness,
Seven by the other entered,
Down into the pit of terrors.

II.

     Stood a fair and stately dwelling
In the concourse of the people,
Of the lofty of the people;
Looked it on the smaller buildings
Downward in a scornful manner;

Proud was it of fine appearance,
Proud the people who dwelt in it.
There the arts of every nation
Met with the united purpose
To adorn and to give splendor
To the chambers of this mansion,
To its corridors and landings.
Ottomans of downy velvet
In the looms of Utrecht woven,
Vases of Chinese production,
Crystals, bright and burnished figures,
Models made of gold and silver,
Tapestry, and lace, and network,
Carpets from the looms of Brussels,
Woven into gaudy figures.
     In a certain gorgeous chamber,
In apparel likewise gorgeous,
Sat a mighty, pompous woman.
Very high were her ideas
Of her own expanded person,
And her own unmeasured value;
All the world would not contain them,
They were so elate and soaring.
Luxury and ease were round her,
As she fancied to receive them;
And a host of powdered servants

Waited idly for her orders.
Now she calls for an attendant,
And doth give him orders thuswise:
“‘Not at home’ shall be the answer
Unto all who this day seek me,
Save unto his highness Fashion;
Ye shall give to him admission.”
State obeisance marks his exit,
Ready for a plumper falsehood,
Spoken to his lady’s order.
Soon a knock, which sounds familiar.
Lo! it is the dunning trader,
Who is sorely run to hold him
From the stream of dangerous rumours;
But the answer thus is told him—
“Not at home, my lady is not.”
So the tradesman from her doorway,
Empty-handed, homeward turns,
Thinks not such a ready answer
Is an utter fabrication.
     Sero, from his seat beholding,
Saw this lounging lump of matter,
Pufféd up in pomp and splendor.
He was moved to indignation,
And said, in a scornful manner,
“O blinded fool!  O filthy pomp!

Glory ye in dust and shadows?
See ye not the wild delusions,
Which ye cherish so and fondle,
Through the darkness they are set in?”
Said he to attendants by him,
“Go ye to that stately chamber
Where this pompous woman sitteth;
Pass the trader in the doorway
And the ready story-teller,
Enter and lay hold upon her;
Take the lusty look she weareth,
Cast it to the winds that ramble,
Racing through the hills and mountains;
Take her great imaginations,
Sift them in the seive of honor—
Lo! they are as dross and ashes,
And her pomps and giddy grandeur
Scatter and disperse them likewise.”
So went Sero’s servants forward,
Did as had their chief commanded,
Smote this pompous woman sorely—
With the rod of sickness smote her;
And the ruddy color left her,
And those lofty airs and manners;
Sickness and a ghastly pallor
Came upon her limbs and forehead,

And she hourly sank and wasted
Till a spectre she resembled.
Then the spirit fled the body,
And was carried unto Sero;
Sero through the wicket passed it
To the pit of Long Damnation.
What is now this pompous woman,
And her great imagination?
These have vanished like a shadow,
As a myth or phantom figure;
And that body, once so lusty,
Is a mouldering lump of matter,
Corruptible, and vile, and filthy.

III.

     In a miserable dwelling
Sat a miserable old man
Mid a heap of hoarded treasures,
Buried in the walls and burrows;
And it was his constant idol,
And his brain was ever scheming
How he might augment the numbers.
Oft he turned the treasure over,
Counting fondly and recounting;
And he joyed to hear the jingle
Of the yellow coins he counted.

Threescore years had been devoted,
Scraping of this gain together.
He had fed on scanty portion,
Grudging sorely every morsel;
And had clothed himself in raiments
Which a beggar scarce would stand in.
He had never fed the hungry,
And had never clothed the naked,
That he might increase his riches.
     Sero in this hovel saw him
Bending o’er his golden treasures;
And he laughed derisive laughter,
And sarcastic was his manner,
As his servants he commanded
To the miser’s presence, saying,
“Lo! our princely Sero wisteth
Whence are all these hoarded riches,—
If in scruple they were gathered.
If ye long to take them with you
When you leave this land of Weemus
For the lands of the hereafter;
If ye think to buy a passport
To the land of Blisses with them,
Ye are sadly much mistaken.
This we deem as dross and worthless.
Ye can never enter thereto