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: p. 35‘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 p. 36To 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, p. 37Weeping 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 

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