King Nimæra.

A SATIRE.

INTRODUCTION.

In the following Poem, the purpose of the Author shall be to shew that man is born to vicissitudes, and to censure the lewdness and frivolities to which he stoops.

To personate characters, time is represented by King Nimæra; birth, life, and death respectively by Kalim, Weemus, and Sero; while mankind is represented by Nimæra’s subjects, and the world by his kingdom, heaven by “The Land of Bliss,” and hell by “The Pit of Terrors.”

KING NIMÆRA.

Honor from the many nations, Honor from the scattered people, Honor much had King Nimæra. King Nimæra on his throne sat In his ancient power and greatness, In his modern pomp and splendor, With adornments full about him, With musicians ever by him, With advisers sitting round him, Till he needed of their wisdom; They were counted by the thousands, By the hundreds and the thousands. Sage-like was this King Nimæra; Furrowed was his brow with seasons; Hoary were his locks and silvery, Ran the sportive breezes through them, Tossed them up in endless frolic. Mutely sat the aged monarch Mid the many lights and shadows, Mid the many scenes and changes Which for ever came around him, Casting cursive glances on them, Smiling now at some adroitness, Frowning then at deeds of folly; And a mystic manner had he, Deep, and hidden, and mysterious, That the people could not fathom What he purposed for the future; Yet he loved this people fondly, And they fondly loved their monarch. In their sorrow he beheld them, And would comfort sometimes offer, As, in joy and mirth elated, He would sometimes bring them sadness. These were dealings mystic to them, Yet they were for good intended. Springtime saw him calm and gentle, Sweet and pleasing in his manner; In the Summer he was joyful, Light and gay as some fair maiden In the time she seeks a wooer. These were seasons of rejoicing, And he called musicians forward, Skilled in every art of music, That the songs of night and morning, And the blooming of the daytime, Came from every hill and valley; Every wind and zephyr laden With melodious floods of music. And in Autumn he came freely, With a hand in bounty flowing, Filling all the stores and garners With rich heaps of fruit the choicest, And with wine, and corn, and spices, That the heart of every subject Poured its thankful blessings on him. But in Winter he was gloomy, Dark, and dismal, and uncheerful, And sat brooding as in anger, Robed in garments dull and heavy; All gay vesture now forsaken, And all music now forbidden. Then the Winter turned and vanished As it came, unsought, uncherished, Now unmourned and unregretted; And the Spring again came dancing, Casting charms around profusely By the lanes, and woods, and waters, And brought music, mirth, and gladness, That the monarch heard the gay notes, And removed his sombre garments, And his frowns and dismal broodings, Donning in their stead right gladly His accustomed festal garments, And his manner bright and cheerful. Three great princes had Nimæra, Who held each a post of honor In the ruling of the kingdom, In the keeping of the subjects. Wisdom had they, and were vested Much in favor, much in honor; And a spirit moved within them, Guiding and directing always. ’Twas a spirit high and sacred, From the Maker of the kingdom, Who in pow’r set King Nimæra, And who watched for ever on it With an eye of keen discerning, To behold if Justice guarded Every action of the rulers. Kalim was a prince the foremost, Who brought people to the kingdom, Made them of a wondrous matter, Moulded, fashioned, and designed them, Limbs and bodies full of senses, Some with beauties and attractions, Comely in their forms and graces, Others wanting and imperfect, And repulsive in appearance. He conveyed them unto Weemus, Left them in his care for training, Heeding not how that was ordered, But returned without delaying, Backward to his own seclusion, Homeward to his mystic working; For his only thoughts resided, And his only glory rested, In the numbers he created, In their beauty of formation, Which in secret depths he fashioned. Weemus was a prince the second, Great among the princely chieftains; He was keeper of the subjects, Took them from the hands of Kalim Young and tender as a blossom, Fed the spirit in their bosom, Cared and kept them out of danger, Framed them unto firmer being, Led them unto good or evil, Led them on to pomp and glory, Rising out of great achievements, By these ways to wealth and grandeur, Scattered on their footpaths wisdom— Wisdom, knowledge, and discretion, Evils, vices, lust, and anger, As a sower scatters corn-seed; Let them gather as they listed Of the good or of the evil. They had powers of true discernment, To direct them as they gathered Which were good and which were evil, Written and engraved on records, Words of endless power and meaning; And a few the good selected, Gathered from a wise discretion; But the crowds were blind and heedless, Minded not the laws and records, Gathered freely of the evil, Wandered on in lusts and vices, Wandered on to spoil and plunder, Wandered on to want and sorrow, Misery, and pain, and anguish. Strange his dealings were and hidden; Oft would take the greatest boaster, Mighty in his own beholding, Who in pomp and riches loitered, In high seats of veneration, And would draw him downward, downward, Rob him of his pomp and splendor, Of his riches and his glory, Set him by the homeless beggar, Holden in the pangs of hunger, Gladly feeding on the morsels Given by the poor and humble, Who were once by him despiséd. Lone, and destitute, and humbled, Soon he learns his frail condition, And that he is only mortal. Or the unpretending stranger, From a poor and humble dwelling, And unknown among the people, Weemus oft would take and guide him High unto a seat of honor, To reside in noble mansions, Fame and praise for ever by him. Thuswise Weemus often acted, Fearless of rebuke or censure, And accounted not his reasons, Dealing ever as he listed. Sero was the third prince calléd; He was stern, and fierce, and warlike; Fear and terror walked before him In the sight of all the people, And his bearing was majestic; Quick and keen his glances darted, Like a strong man’s arrow flying; And the people tried to shun him, To avoid the ways he haunted; And they trembled sadly, sorely, If he ever ventured near them. Yet beneath his hardened manner Dwelt a gentle spirit calmly; It was only to the wicked, To the evil and the sinful, That his terror was revealéd. Sero from the hands of Weemus Took the people rudely, boldly, As directed by the spirit Which for ever ruled his actions. Old, and young, and middle-aged, Heedless of their years he took them, Heedless of their power or greatness, Heedless of their worth or beauty, Or of want or low attainments; Pious-minded, vain, and sinful, Fell alike to be removéd. There were some who longed his coming To relieve them of their burden, And admit them to the bright realms Which he watched, and kept, and guarded, There to rest in peace and tranquil, Sheltered from the wars and tumults, From the storms, and fears, and terrors Which were ever raging freely Throughout all the lands of Weemus. They had seen in feeble vision— Seen a ray of future glory, Of the sweet and happy pleasures In this kingdom Sero guarded; Longed and panted for admission, Toiled and labored for a passport, Fought and battled for a title To this realm where trouble is not, Till they had become the victors, And were waiting now to enter. Throughout all Nimæra’s kingdom Warning heralds Sero sent out To implore the heedless people, Raising thus their warning voices: “Turn, ye people, turn from evil, Know ye that the day is nearing For the long and weary journey Through dark valleys and wild passes To the lands of the hereafter. Be ye ready for departure, Robed and girded for the journey; For our guide, the princely Sero, Cometh; he is soon before you. If you are not waiting ready, He will not delay the journey, But will in the darkness leave you, Which ye cannot wander out of, From its terrors or its dangers, Till it take you to destruction, To an everlasting torment.” Thus the warning heralds wandered, Oft complaining, oft imploring Unto all the erring people, Unto all the slothful numbers; But they were so bound in pleasures, Were in sin and lust so tangled, That they heeded not the warning— The kind words of warning spoken; Which were lost and vainly wasted, Were as mists upon a bulwark, Bearing with them no impression, Save unto a sorry number— But a few who heard and listened, And returned from evil doing Unto ways of truth and knowledge. And of Sero let me tell you. He was keeper of the passes Leading to the land of Wisdom— Wisdom, clothed in radiant glory; And unto the lands of Darkness— Darkness, clothed in every horror. With bewailing he was girded, To that band a key suspended; He was girded with rejoicing, To that band a key suspended. These were keys wherewith he opened, Opened he therewith the wickets, To allow the people entrance As the passport they presented. Just between the wickets sat he, Wide his dusky pinions spreading, One upon each entrance holding; And above him waved a banner, In its colors dull and dismal; Deep and solemn was the motto, Was the warning written on it; Thus it was in bold description— “Woe is for the evildoer; For the upright, joy and gladness.” And a voice beside him echoed, In sonorous sounds and loudly, Tones of gladness, tones of sadness, “Hark ye, hark ye, all who wander, Woe is for the evildoer; For the upright, joy and gladness.” In his right hand Sero wielded,— Brandished a terrific weapon, And it was a sword of terror; For the evil, but beholding, Trembled as an aspen leaflet, Shuddered as the ruined shudder. Wonder movéd all the people While they listened to the sayings, To the wonders he unfolded Of the regions which he guarded. Thus he made his mystic sayings: “Through this wicket on my right hand Is a vale of noble grandeur, Placid and surpassing lovely, Which the pilgrim, as he enters, Hails with overflowing gladness. Seraphs from the holy regions— Oh, so sweet, and so inviting!— Meet him as he enters therein; Through the pleasant passes guide him, By the banks of streamlets gliding, With a constant music laden; Mellow light-beams on them dancing, Waltzing to the streamlet’s music; Music soft and so melodious Rising from the groves around them; Groves of myrtle and of woodbine Full of odors rich and soothing, Rising from the flowery vials; Flowers which clothe the banks, adorning, Till the breezes hail their essence; Zephyrs soft, and fair, and gentle, Take these balmy odors with them, Throughout all the holy regions. Thus he wanders onward, onward, With his angel guides advancing, Wrapt in wonder and adorement, Raptured with the matchless beauty, Till a softer music cometh, Sweeter than the notes around him, On the distance flowing sweetly. Soon the strains come nearer, clearer, And he wonders why the music. ‘Whence these songs of mirth and gladness?’ Asketh thus his angel escort. ‘Where and whence these sounds melodious? Whose are all these festive voices? What the cause of such rejoicing?’ And the spirits answer thuswise: ‘These are bands of angels singing In the happy land of Blessing, In the lofty halls of gladness. Seraphs from their golden harps draw Notes to swell the songs of gladness. These are songs of glad rejoicings For another pilgrim nearing,— One escaped the land of bondage. This the source of these rejoicings.’ Ere this answer hath been spoken, Lo! before them rise the portals Of the holy land of Blessing. This the city he hath heard of In such sweet and wondrous stories, Whence he longed in patient waiting To arrive at, now before him. How enraptured he beholdeth All its dazzling brightness spreading, As he nearer comes and nearer To the haven of his journey, Thousand times ten thousands grander Than his brightest fancies thought of. Sparkling, bounding in its brightness, Comes the soft and cheering fair light, Rolling o’er the diamond bulwarks, Flowing through the golden portals, Like ten thousand fairy sunbeams. All the bulwarks are of diamond, And of purest gold the portals; Paved of brightest gems the courts are; Blended in a noble grandeur, Sapphire blocks and blocks of ruby, Emerald bars and bars of opal, Rows of amethyst and topaz, Sparkling in their golden framework. Lofty are the walls and mighty, Rising unto heights unmeasured, Mighty, strong beyond conception. Round the outer palisading Of the diamond walls are watching Many hosts from the Sabaoth Of the King of all these bright 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, and dejected; And the lurid glares break through it Of the flames for ever burning; And he sees the shames, the tortures, And the writhing objects in them, Suffering and enduring anguish. They who once on bounty feasted, Now enclosed in pangs of hunger; They who were the poor’s oppressors, Now oppressed and trodden under. Now destroyers are destroyéd, Scoffers are with scoff betaken, And the lofty are made humble; And he shudders to behold them. Then an awful oath is spoken, Bidding to unbar the passage; And the burdened words are answered With another oath as fearful From the fierce and sullen keeper; And the creaking bars fly backward With a mighty clash of vengeance. Then the brazen gate is opened, And the poor deluded victim Thrust into the pit of horrors, All amid the foulsome vapors. Flies the postern close behind him, Back the bolts and bars are driven, Creaking with their heavy burden; And a motley throng surround him, Railing, scoffing, and abusing; Each devising of some evil To annoy, or taunt, or torture. Vengeance burneth black within him, And infernal wars are raging In him and in all the dwellers, One and one against another, Who are doomed through time eternal To this awful pit of terrors; Where the evil spirits harbour, Keep, and count their spoil and plunder, Gathered from among the people, Brought from many ruined cities, Gained in many depredations, By the hand of havoc aided.” These are stories Sero telleth Of the happy land of Blisses, Of the dreaded pit of terrors, To the people of the kingdom, If perchance he may allure them By the wonders he revealeth Of the blisses of the former, Of the terrors of the latter. But through all Nimæra’s kingdom Went a band of evil spirits, Tribunes of the Prince of Darkness, Went to aid his evil purpose; Pried and scouted every corner, Entered into all the dwellings, Came to tempt and to misguide them, Came to tempt Nimæra’s people, Lead them on to lust and evil, Taught them how to rob and plunder, Taught them how to kill and murder, Put corruption in their wishes, Poisoned all their thoughts and reasons, Mingled madness in their pleasures, Blinded them with show and grandeur, Gave them longings and ambitions, That they lost their true discernment, As a man with wines confuséd Loses proper sense and caution. And they gave such sumptuous meetings, And they said such wondrous fair things— Things that ne’er before were heard of, That the dazzled people followed; And they reaped a mighty harvest, Leading, drawing as they listed; For this was a simple people, Credulous, and blind, and simple. Now the Maker of the kingdom, From his pure and dazzling white throne, Looked and saw the dreadful havoc Raging mid Nimæra’s people, And it vexed him very sorely; For he loved the people fondly Who were wisely formed by Kalim: Bones, with matter moulded on them, Fraught with channels, watercourses, And red rivers running through them, From a mystic fountain rising, Flowing ever fast and constant, Giving and diffusing vigor Through the many wondrous members. Counsel took He to restore them From destruction’s ruthless havoc, In an earnest consultation Saying ever and repeating, “We must save this ruined people; We must give them light and caution: Light, to shew their wayward goings; Caution, to direct them rightly.” So a band of spirits went out, Builded with a holy ardour, Sped athrough the heights and spaces To Nimæra’s kingdom, saying: “We will reason with this people; Reason boldly, turn and change them, Warn them of the evil spirits, Shew them thrones, and crowns, and mansions, As a trophy of repentance, Till they cannot fail but hear us, Till they turn in great rejoicing.” Thus the spirits went and wandered, Talked and reasoned with the people, Shewing thrones, and crowns, and mansions, Using every power and effort To persuade them of the folly, Of the dangers they were choosing. They who heard the deep entreaties For a minute turned to listen; Felt the powers within them moving Striving to believe and follow. But, a little season longer, When the spirits passéd from them, They returned unto the rapids, To the mighty stream of ruin Rolling onward to destruction; For they were so much enamoured By the cunning fascinations Which the evil spirits gave them That they lackéd strength and courage, And they failed to turn and follow, Save a very little number, Who restrained their lusts and wishes, And gave heed unto the sayings Which the kindly spirits bore them, Gaining power, the more they harken’d, To withstand the evil spirits, And to baffle their endeavours. These went to the land of Blisses; But for one who Sero passéd Through the wicket on his right hand, Going to the holy regions, Seven passéd on his left hand, Going to the pit of terrors. Now that I have told you fairly, Shewing as is due to render Of the powers of King Nimæra And his three most favored princes, Giving Sero’s own description Of the wonders of the regions Which lie hid within the wickets Which he ever proudly guardeth, Will you listen when I tell you,— Will you hearken to the stories I can give you of Nimæra, And his three most powerful princes, And their dealings with the people? I shall do my best to render Stories such as will entice you; Though my voice is low and feeble, Though my pen is slow and wayward, Never moving fair and fluent, As the spirit which directs it Would that it should move and tell you. They shall but be little stories, Gathered from the many records Which the people kept and courted In their halls, and towns, and cities.

I.

Sailing o’er the sparkling waters, With accordant breezes favoured, Came a vessel homeward bearing, And a gladsome people on it. Sang they songs, and danced, and sported; Sadness was unknown amid them; Old, and young, and middle-agéd Were they, and of divers stations. While their pleasures were the fullest, Sero saw their joys and pondered,— Pondered with his inward spirit: “Lo! they have an idle fancy, All their thoughts are gay and heedless, And they dream not of destruction, Think not of a danger nearing, Nor will hearken to the warnings Which are ever spoken to them. Ere another morn has wakened Shall their joys be turned to mourning. I will send, and turn, and change them.” Said he to retainers by him, “Seest thou that fair-like vessel, And the mirthful crew upon 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 Bearing such a burden with you. Ye must feed the hungry with it, And must clothe the naked wanderer, And employ it as a talent To be used for wiser purpose Than to hoard in walls and burrows, If ye long to be admitted To the tranquil land of Blisses.” But the old man would not listen To the words of wisdom spoken; He was so engrossed in counting, And in adding to his riches. So the servant raised his weapon, Sorely therewith smote the miser,— With destruction did he smite him,— That he fell a lifeless clay-heap Down among the hoarded moneys; And his spirit was removéd Unto Sero, and he opened Wide the wicket on his left hand, And it passed into the darkness, To the pit of gloom and terrors. Then the door was rudely opened Of this miserable dwelling By the people claiming kinship; And they scrambled for the riches, And in many quarrels sought them, Tending to the disuniting Of the sacred bonds of friendship; Brother against brother rising, Raging in a bitter conflict. Many, who received a portion, Went and squandered to his ruin All he had in lust and gambling, Till his life was sorely broken. When his riches had been pillaged, Then the body of the miser Was removéd quick and coldly, Lowered in the grave and covered; But of they who followed with it, No one wept a tear of sorrow, No one mourned for his departure; But they gave attendance only,— That, stern duty had commanded. Thus the end was of the old man, Of the miserable miser.

IV.

In a wilderness of houses In the heart of a great city, Full of riches, full of plenty, And of people high and prosperous, Of its ancient greatness boasting, And its modern princely splendors; In a loathsome and a dark street, Foulsome odors rising from it, Rife and pregnant with diseases, Stood a hovel, foul and filthy; Lay a being, wane and wasted, On a straw heap in a corner; Scarce a rag to hide her person, Lice and vermin creeping on her; And beside her stood distraction, Woe, and want, and piercing hunger; And her look was wild and vacant, Like a spectre’s, wandering madly. When the night came, it was laden Much with gloomy fear and sadness, And a trembling apprehension That the dawn would not approach her; And the morning was attended With but little hope or succour. Charity, in cold attendance, Came with many words and wishes; And, in fair and full pretending, Stood, and pitied, and regretted; But it gave a meagre pittance Or of comfort or appeasing, To withdraw the pangs of hunger, Or relieve her sunken spirit. But good Sero saw in pity. He beheld her calm endurance Of the anguish bearing on her; And he sent and took her spirit— Took it gently from the ruin, From the filth and the pollution; And he opened wide the wicket By his right hand, and conveyed it From the misery and anguish To the happy land of Blisses, To the land of peace and plenty.

With the burden of my stories I shall not detain you further, Lest ye weary to pursue them Through the dreary way they lead you. Let me further only mention, Sero’s servants were engagéd Ever seeking and conveying Subjects from the hands of Weemus To the watch-ward of their chieftain. Mute and mystic were their movements; Softly, and without observance, Passed they to the secret chamber,— Took from thence the hidden subject; From the lover’s fond embraces Tore away his dearest treasure— She, to whom his life was wedded, Was for ever sworn betrothéd; Went into the stately dwelling, And the lowly and the humble, Heedless of position took them; To the sacred courts of prayer, Where the Maker of the kingdoms Held communion with the people; And into the gay assemblies, To the scenes of mirth and gladness, Where were songs and revel dances, In a maddened fulness rising. Many widows left they mourning— Widows wailing, orphans weeping, In unmitigated sorrow, For the loss of near and dear ones. Hard and cruel seemed their dealings In the sight of all the people; For they could not learn the purpose Which, in all their acts, directed. Yet these were most wisely ordered; For the Maker of the kingdom, Of Nimæra’s kingdom,—moved them— Moved, and guided, and informed them. Sero to the land of Blisses Passéd all the just and lowly; They whose lives had been preservéd From the soiling stains of evil; Who had lived in single purpose, Holy and uprightly always; Who had made oblations fitting, Praise and honor to the Founder Of Nimæra and his kingdom; And had made a full endeavour In obeying the commandments Which were written for their guidance; Who of charity gave freely Unto all the poor and needy, And, in giving, had no purpose Selfishly to further thereby. But unto the pit of terrors Evil and unrighteous people, All the lukewarm and the heedless Of the order of the statutes, All blasphemers and revilers, And all foul and filthy talkers, Liars, brawlers, and adulterers, They whose hands are stained in murder, All the proud and haughty boasters, All licentious and deceivers, They who are the poor’s oppressors, Robbers and unjust receivers,— These for ever had their portion In the pit of gloom and terrors.

If ye wonder at its greatness And the grand and deep foundation Of the kingdom of Nimæra, We will take a tour and see it, Going unto every limit Where Nimæra great in power is, Where he holds his goodly council, Chief of all the powers beside him. From the womb of words it came forth, Out of chaos and of darkness, First in rude and wild confusion, Then arranged in goodly order; Lands and waters, woods and pastures, And with moving creatures peopled. First, behold the orbs above us, Which are ever sparkling brightly; Let us upward rise and see them— See their great and many wonders, With a wonder rising mountains Through the circuit they are set in. These are worlds like our own one, And have each their separate people, Laws, and customs, and strange dealings; And these worlds are ever turning, Moving round the orbs of splendor, Fixéd, in the height of spaces, For a light and heat unto them. Now we wonder if these people Are by evil spirits haunted, Which incite them to rebellion, And destroy their God-like image; But we cannot solve the wonder, And must choose to sit in darkness. Then I guide you hence awayward From the sparkling of this system, From the sun’s rebounding brightness, And the pale moon’s ever-fair light, And the many colored star lights, Blended in a great profusion, To the limits of our world, Which we best can know and search in. First, unto the boundless ocean, By the billow which returneth Echo to great Neptune’s call, Where the mermaid host sojourneth In his ancient rocky hall; Where Leviathan, the mighty Keeper of all Neptune’s treasure, Roams around the rocky caverns In majestic state, exploring. Let us see these mighty waters When they rise in foaming billows, Swallowing towns, and ships, and people, Roaring like a mighty thunder; And, when they are still and peaceful, Like a plain of pasture spreading, Sleeping as a virgin sleepeth Ere vain love-dreams fill her bosom. Both these aspects are majestic, Grand, and pleasing, and inspiring. On a bark we will convey us Through the peering rocks and islands, Where the Summer brings its sunshine, And the Winter frost and snow-storms, For a season to the lone isles. Then unto the tropic regions, Where the proud sun pours its glory On the burning sandy deserts; Streams of brightness everlasting, Like ten thousand mountains blazing; And the khamsheens wild and fiercely Sweep in burning flakes along them, And torment the weary traveller Who is slowly wading through them, Thirsting for a cooling river. And ’tis there the wild tornado Riseth in its frame of terror, Wild, and fierce, and unrelenting. To the spreading woods and forests Of the black pine and the myrtle, Of the cedar and the red birch, Of the oak tree and the walnut, Of the tulip and mahogany, All in branchy webwork blended, That the light can hardly enter To remove the clouds of darkness In the vast and deep recesses; Where the lion and the tiger, Where the panther and the leopard, And the jaguar and hyæna, And the tan wolf and the ocelot, In the daytime hold their parley, And resort for wakeful slumbers, Till the dusky hand of black night Draweth down her curtain on them; Then they leave the sylvan passes To traverse the open valley, Prowling after luckless surfeit, Lurking by the lakes and rivers For the panting prey which cometh To allay its thirsty feelings At their sweet and cooling waters. There the owl at midnight whoopeth, And the lions roar majestic, And the many prowling wild brutes Raise such divers sounds and noises, That it gives a fearful grandeur To the scene at hours of midnight. To the rocky hills and mountains We will next direct our journey, Which with heathy robes are mantled, And whose heads are ever wearing Caps of snow of many ages. These are in adorning climates, Where the seasons bring their changes, Where comes hoary-headed white frost, And the plumy flakes of white snow, Showered around in bounty’s largess, Lend the plains a pure white carpet, And the hills a dazzling wrapper, Which they don in princely grandeur, Till the herald voice resoundeth O’er the mountains, hills, and valleys, From the orient regions coming: “Haste ye, Winter, your departure, And remove those chill adornments, Fold those dreary garments quickly, And begone unto your own land; For our fairy queen approacheth, Comes our gentle queen to claim her Now the rule of this dominion. Hark how sweet the songs she bringeth! We shall give her welcome greetings.” Now the peaceful vales and pastures All in beauty spread before us; And the fragrant kine are grazing, And the merry lambs run frisking Mid the perfumes of the meadow, From the odors of the Spring flowers; And the Cashet dove is cooing Love songs to its cherished mate; And the shepherd boy is wooing By the rustic cottage gate. There the swains, in nature’s freedom, Pour their mirth around profusely; And the agéd people fondly See the mirth they once partook of. Now, from scenes so sweet and pleasant, We must turn and journey onward; From the mountains’ rugged grandeur, Where the chamois and the wild deer Roam in constant freedom over; Where the eagle soaring flyeth, Scouting with a keen beholding; And with thunders rolling by us, And with lightnings trouling round us, Seek for other scenes and fancies. Thence away unto the regions, Gliding o’er the restless billows, Through the howling storms and tempests, Unto scenes of snow and icelands, Where the blocks of ice are dancing Like huge hills amid the billows, And the snows are ever sleeping, And the frosts are ever biting; Where the bears go prowling wildly, Creeping from their icy caverns. There we find a nature also, And a people who enjoy it. But that we have made a survey Rudely of the different regions, And in visits on our journey Have discerned the varying customs Of the many different people Who take glory in their white skins, Or of others who, alikewise, Build their pride in skins of copper; Let us notice more minutely Scenes, and wonders, and behaviours On this kingdom of Nimæra, As they often come before us. So the little stream we follow, Rising from a rocky mountain, See it moving onward, onward, Gathering force, and power, and beauty, Till it gets a rolling river, Sweeping onward to the ocean, Watering many pleasant valleys, Cheering many a thirsty traveller. This is like a man who riseth From a humble life and hidden Unto power, and wealth, and wisdom, Gaining large and goodly influence, Giving, as he upward rises, Courage unto needy pilgrims, Help unto the homeless wanderer. These are of Nimæra’s kingdom. But, as we have traced the river From its wild and rustic birthplace, Let us see the scenes beside it; And in wonder deep we ponder How all these things were created, And of the unbounded knowledge Of the Being great who made them. First we pass the lake which spreadeth Wide its bosom to the sunshine, Or unto the winds and tempests; By its mountain bulwarks guarded, Which for everlasting passion Keep the couch whereon it sleepeth. Then the sweet and happy village, Standing in the peaceful valley, Fraught of fondest recollections Of the happy days of childhood Unto many far departed, Toiling through the world’s courses. There is simple joy and humble, And in unity the daytime And the tranquil of the night time Keep harmonious pleasures by it. Stand around it woods and pastures, Full of song, and peace, and plenty; O’er them softest winds are wafted, Sporting gently with the leaflets, Which unite in murmurs often, Seeming to reproach them thuswise: “Why came ye so near our pillows, To disturb the peaceful order Of our slumbers sweet and soothing?” In the east behold the gay orb Leave its cradle for rejoicing O’er its course in might and grandeur. On the west behold the pillow Where it lieth down to slumber. Next, as we go wandering onward From these rustic scenes and pleasing, Comes the city, overflowing With a motley population. There oft pestilence and sickness Pay each other salutation, And unite their fatal efforts To destroy in deadly numbers, Raging through the streets in darkness, And disguiséd in the daytime To betray the one who thinks not That his doom is yet so near him. There the harlot of the midnight Holdeth forth her deadly charmings To entice the blind and simple. He is simple who doth lend her Such a glance that lusts go after; He defiléd that partaketh Of the couch she sheweth to him. Seek of wisdom, and refrain thee From the path whereon she lurketh; She will draw thy vigor from thee, And thy spirit to destruction. There is sin, in all its blackness, Spreading wide its vile infection. Like unto a thief it stealeth Through the crowded lanes and alleys; And appeareth, robed more gaily, Yet as hideous in its purpose, In the dwellings of the lofty, On their walks and promenadings. Here the young are led from virtue Unto every ill devising; As the lad who, in his anger, Curseth a reproving parent Daily wanders unto evil, Till his hand is raised to murder, Reeking in a brother’s life-blood. Then of fear he is betaken, And a bloody spirit haunts him, Till his days are sadly ended Hanging on the loathsome gallows. Here is revel mirth and gladness, And gay scenes, where flock the simple. They are simple who, alluréd, Follow Pleasure’s fleeting phantom. They are led deluded onward, Till it is a curse unto them, And they have not power to leave it. They are led to low desires, Craving unto lust and evil; As the drunkard and profaner, As the vile and the licentious Glory in plebian language, With their sharp tongues dipt in slander, And their words in curses flowing, Think not of their awful ending Till destruction comes upon them. Thus the gorgeous devil hieth To the grand and gay assemblies, And attend him many pages In their many-colored costumes; They are eager at enlisting,— Luring numbers to his bondage. Have you taken his temptation? Are you too an eager worker To allure the simple to him? Say how many souls are writhing In a long and sad destruction, Who pursued a better pathway Till you lured them to forego it. But I must not wander thuswise. We are now in the great city, Where the lofty and the lowly, And the sumptuous and the starving, Are within each other’s shadows. There the merchant and the trader Tendeth each his own transactions; Some deal fairly, some deal falsely. And the judges sit dispensing Seeming justice to the people; But their judgments are corrupted, And they rule in wrong or favor. There is constant din and bustle; And the weary shopman standeth Day to day in close confinement; And the pallid seamstress sitteth For a long and tedious twelve hours Stitching, while her life is ebbing In a rapid current from her. Now awhile we see the playhouse, And the giddy hall of music, And the scenes exposéd therein, Oft immodest and immoral. Next the nest of thieves and robbers, With their heaps of spoil and plunder, And their hidden laws and customs. Then we seek the house of prayer, Which is only weekly opened, Or which day to day inviteth Weary souls into its shadow, There to hold a sweet communion With the God who made and keeps them, Or the silent hours of midnight To employ in watchful prayer. As we come unto His presence Let us bow in holy reverence, As is ever due and fitting, To the God who there descendeth. Now behold the people gathered; They are all as one together, But their thoughts are widely parted. Some are earnest, true, and godly, Others wicked and regardless; Some are semi-sanctimonious, (Most obnoxious of deceivers.) Let us see their inward purpose. One doth offer true oblation— Praise and worship, as he seemeth; While the thoughts of one near by him Are among the world’s pleasures; And another has come hither To give homage, style, and fashion; And another thinks of feasting (His great god is in his belly.) Suchlike is the varied purpose Of the lofty and the humble, Met together and commingled In this sacred house of prayer. Now we leave this hallowed building, And again the street we enter. There we meet a mournful number, In a mournful measuring treading, All in sombre garments vested; And in reverent awe we follow To the place where sculls of dead men And the framework of the body In the grave’s deep stillness slumber,— Where the worms are ever feeding On the bodies fast decaying. There the mourners lay their burden In the cold grave, weeping on it Tears of anguish deep and bitter; And they heap the mould upon it, And return a little season, Till the time for their departure: Soon in death they also slumber. Let us always keep as sacred This still dwelling of our fathers, Whereto oft the lonely mourner, Oft the orphan and the widow, Come to weep a tear of sorrow On the cold ground which enshrineth The remains of dear ones parted Ever from their earthly presence. Now we leave the crowded city, With its mingled good and evil, With its noise, and din, and bustle, And the roll of laden waggon, And the mail cart, and the black van; And we pass a little onward, Down beside the pleasant river, To the fields of war and bloodshed, Where destruction’s storm is raging, Where the valiant and the brave men All around are thickly falling— Falling as the leaves of Autumn, Trampled in the dust around them, Where they soon will be forgotten, Sleeping in the depth of ages. Gory red the river runneth, And the plains with blood are steaming— Boiling blood, which from the wounded Floweth, gushing fast and freely. Why is all this ruthless ravage, And this people fiercely warring? It is for a vain ambition, Or a little earthly matter Which they cannot settle better Than in war and deadly bloodshed, Or to gain an angry vengeance For some insult which appeareth To imagination hideous. Now we leave the sterner presence Of the earth and all its changes, And we take the wings of fancy, (Which is sister to poesy), Guided by the light of record Thereon mount, and fly, surveying, Far above the heights of knowledge. And we take a retrospective Of the ancient times and people, When was nature young and blooming, When our fathers were created, And within the blessed Eden Set to tend and to adorn it. Adam with his Eve belovéd, Happy in their single nature, Thus brought forth to joy and pleasure, Innocent and sweet amusement, In attending on the fair wants Of the creatures set around them, Over which, in kingly greatness, They were made the head, the purpose Of these others in creation, From the unexploréd chaos. Thence we come into the present. Age to age doth bring us onward Through the fickle term of nations And the changes of the people, Mid their tumults and their tranquils, As they stand in pomp and glory, Firm and faithful in their own strength, Till its frailty cometh on them And they are completely conquered,— Broken down in great destruction. O’er the waters of the deluge We come sailing onward, onward; And arrive with many records From the many downcast nations, From the people of all ages, First, and last, and intervening. And we pass the time allotted To the gods of superstition, When the world was set in darkness, In the fear of gods of fancy, Who held counsel on Olympus. There sat Jupiter, the greatest, On his ivory and gold throne, And communed with his advisers, Who were Juno, his betrothéd, Fairest goddess of the council, Who gave from her depths of knowledge Good advisings to her chieftain. Then were Mars, the fierce and warlike, And Apollo, for the poets, With Diana, his twin sister, Who sat on the silent moonbeam, Chaste, enchanting in her meekness. Then stood Venus, rich in charmings, Goddess sole of love and beauty; And stood Mercury, the swiftest Bearer of the council’s tidings. Then came Neptune, strong and mighty, Ruler of the storms and tempests; And the god of fire near him, Who was Vulcan, rude and ready. And to Vesta, Saturn’s daughter, Were entrusted fires also, More refined and more celestial; While the number was completed By good Ceres, full of bounty, Keeper of the corns and harvests. Thus in council sat the great gods, Dealing fates unto the nations; So the simple people fancied. Now the flight of fancy over, She hath brought us safely homeward, To the spot we love the fondest. There we lay the many tokens Of the wondrous journey by us, And reflect now quaintly, calmly On the great things we have witnessed In this kingdom of Nimæra; And, before our thoughts are settled, We by votaries are surrounded From the courts of every people, From the throne of every nation, Who, in tongues that widely vary, And in words that sound so strangely, Give their mission, bear their record Of the throne of King Nimæra, Of his ancient power and greatness, Of his presence with the modern, With their people of the present. And to give its own conviction Shall the voice of every creature, Of the nobles of creation, All in one together mingle, From the feeble voice of old age To the lisping tongue of childhood. Grand shall be their mingled accents, Which in verity are rising, Telling likewise of Nimæra, Who their every purpose ruleth, Tends it in its first conception, Baffles wholly and destroys it, Or unto completion brings it, Bringeth out its faults or virtues, Shewing where its merit lieth. Then shall every beast that liveth, Every bird and every reptile, Every fish and every insect, Raise their own peculiar voices— (Terrible, or sweet, or puny); And will testify their own way Of the powers of King Nimæra, Who their being’s fire feedeth, Gives them space for life and glory, With that limit ends their being; For no hidden spirit have they Image to the holy Maker. Now the grave shall yield its token, And the battle-field its relic, Stained in gore and kept in glory; And the caverns of the ocean Shall advance a token likewise, Opening wide their watery great doors, Shew the works of many ages By the hand of King Nimæra, With the wonders stored among them, Worked, and fashioned, and performéd. Then the voice of stormy Winter, And the soft and pleasing fair notes Of the Springtime and the Summer, And the richly-laden Autumn, Shall a ready answer make us. And the mighty wind that bloweth, And the soothing and the soft breeze With a pensive murmur cometh— Cometh laden with responses From the trees of every forest (Every leaflet’s tiny voice joined), From the fair and fertile valleys, From among the hills and mountains, With advisings to speak boldly Of the powers of King Nimæra; That in every race or ramble Has his throne been set around them, Built of wonders and composéd Far amid the wilds and fertiles. Here and hence these heralds answer; Then they take their pinions swiftly, And are vanished ere we know them, Still to roam, and race, and ramble. Next the voices shall be blended Of the brooklets and great rivers, Of the ever-murmuring ocean, Of the wild and roaring thunders, Of the tempest howling terrors, Hailstones heavy and great snow-storms, And the flames of fire roaring; These shall boldly say their saying, That he is among them alway, That they have for ever known him, And their strength dependeth on him. Then the rocks in echoes answer— Answer to the roll of thunders, And the roaring of the ocean, In a myriad sounds replying, Own the powers of King Nimæra. Then the stars shall twinkle signs forth, Like the language of the speechless; And the sun in dazzling bright rays, And the moon with mellow fair beams, And the evening and the morning, And the noonday and the midnight, And the dew which gently falleth, And the raindrops and the vapors, And the mists on all the rivers, And the fleecy and the black clouds Shall inscribe their ready answers, And with mystic fingers write thus: “When our buoyant pinions take us High unto the outer heavens, Far beyond the eagle’s soarings, Then we see Nimæra’s wonders In all spaces that we visit On the earth or in the heavens, And, in every form that nears us, See his wondrous power and greatness; For his throne is firmly builded, Rising unto all the world.” And they further shall inform us That some strange and mystic stories Have been spoken of Nimæra And his dealings with the people, Counted in the ancient numbers, Reckoned in the current courses. Now that we are well informéd Of his throne, and power, and dealings, Let us hear the voice of Reason, Speaking lastly, yet abounding Much of wisdom and of foresight, Seeing, as a prophet, matters Hidden yet upon the future; And he tells us, “Yet a short time Stands the throne of King Nimæra; He but reigns a season longer, Then yields up his power and kingdom— Yields it to the hand which gave it; And he well hath filled his mission,— Ever faithful, ever constant. Now he steppeth from his high throne, Builded to the gates eternal, Which are quickly opened to him, And he joins the never ending. Then his kingdom is forgotten, And in flames as chaff consuméd, Rolled away as clouds of vapor; Clouds of smoke and clouds of vapor, Flying with the roar of thunders, Terrible, and loud, and mighty, And with lurid lights illuming All the vast unfathomed chaos. Then comes gloom and dismal darkness, Falling over all the spaces, When the flames forget their burning. Now his people come for judgment, And they are in substance spirits, Born to everlasting being. Mighty is the Judge who sitteth, And His throne a sea of splendor. He gives justice without favor. He is good, and kind, and gentle. They whose lives have been directed Just, and upright, and unswerving From the ways of truth, shall see Him With a joy of sweetest measure. He is stern and firm in purpose. They whose lives have been of evil Tremble in His awful presence; For they see their doom engraven,— ‘To the pit of Long Damnation,’ Awful gloom and awful terrors.”