Classic Poem

She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd
Amid the air, such odors wafting now
As erst came blended with the evening gale,
From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form
Stood by the Maid; his wings, ethereal white,
Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun,
Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear'd
Her Theodore.
Amazed she saw: the fiend
Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice
Sounded, though now more musically sweet
Than ever yet had thrill'd her soul attuned,
When eloquent affection fondly told
The day-dreams of delight.
“Beloved Maid!
Lo! I am with thee, still thy Theodore!
Hearts in the holy bands of love combined,
Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine!
A little while and thou shalt dwell with me,
In scenes where sorrow is not. Cheerily
Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave,
Rough though it be and painful, for the grave
Is but the threshold of eternity.

“Favor'd of Heaven, to thee is given to view
These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss
Thou treadest, Maiden. Here the dungeons are
Where bad men learn repentance. Souls diseased
Must have their remedy; and where disease
Is rooted deep, the remedy is long
Perforce, and painful.”
Thus the spirit spake,
And led the Maid along a narrow path,
Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames,
More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound
Of clanking anvils, and the lengthen'd breath
Provoking fire are heard; and now they reach
A wide expanded den where all around
Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze,
Were burning. At the heaving bellows stood
The meagre form of Care; and as he blew
To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd
His wretched limbs; sleepless forever thus
He toil'd and toil'd, of toil no end to know
But endless toil and never-ending woe.

An aged man went round the infernal vault,
Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task;
White were his locks, as is the wintry snow
On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff
His steps supported: powerful talisman,
Which whoso feels shall never feel again
The tear of pity, or the throb of love.
Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way,
The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall,
Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst
Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee
To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few,
Even though our blessed Savior hath himself
Told us, that easier through the needle's eye
Shall the huge camel pass, than the rich man
Enter the gates of heaven. “Ye cannot serve
Your God and worship Mammon.”
“Mission'd Maid!”
So spake the spirit, “know that these, whose hands
Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil,
Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not spare
To wring from poverty the hard-earn'd mite;
They robb'd the orphan's pittance; they could see
Want's asking eye unmoved; and therefore these,
Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere
In Mammon's service, scorch'd by these fierce fires,
Nor seldom by the overboiling ore
Caught; yet retaining still, to punishment
Converted here, their old besetting sin,
Often impatiently to quench their thirst
Unquenchable, large draughts of molten gold
They drink insatiate, still with pain renew'd,
Pain to destroy.”
So saying, her he led
Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell
Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls
Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore
In milder radiance shone. The carbuncle
There its strong lustre like the flamy sun
Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath,
And from the roof there stream'd a diamond light
Rubies and amethysts their glows commix'd
With the gay topaz, and the softer ray
Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald's nue,
And bright pyropus.
There, on golden seats,
A numerous, sullen, melancholy train
Sat silent. “Maiden, these,” said Theodore,
“Are they who let the love of wealth absorb
All other passions; in their souls that vice
Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree
That with its shade spreads barrenness around.
These, Maid! were men by no atrocious crime
Blacken'd, no fraud, nor ruffian violence;
Men of fair dealing, and respectable
On earth, but such as only for themselves
Heap'd up their treasures, deeming all their wealth
Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven,
To bless them only: therefore here they sit,
Possess'd of gold enough, and by no pain
Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss
They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell,
Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour
Of general restitution.”
Thence they past,
And now arriv'd at such a gorgeous dome,
As even the pomp of Eastern opulence
Could never equal: wandered through its halls
A numerous train; some with the red-swollen eye
Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek;
Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step,
And eyes lack-lustre.
“Maiden!” said her guide,
These are the wretched slaves of Appetite,
Curst with their wish enjoy'd. The epicure
Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall'd sense
Loathes at the banquet; the voluptuous here
Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight,
And sink in misery. All they wish'd on earth
Possessing here, whom have they to accuse
But their own folly, for the lot they chose?
Yet, for that these injured themselves alone,
They to the house of Penitence may hie,
And, by a long and painful regimen,
To wearied Nature her exhausted powers
Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish
Of wisdom, and Almighty Goodness grants
That prize to him who seeks it.”
Whilst he spake,
The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and eyes
Fat-swollen, and legs whose monstrous size disgraced
The human form divine, their caterer,
Hight Gluttony, set forth the smoking feast.
And by his side came on a brother form,
With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red
And scurfy-white, mix'd motley; his gross bulk,
Like some huge hogshead shapen'd, as applied.
Him had antiquity with mystic rites
Adored; to him the sons of Greece, and thine,
Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour'd
The victim blood, with god-like titles graced,
Bacchus, or Dionusus; son of Jove,
Deem'd falsely, for from Folly's idiot form
He sprung, what time Madness, with furious hand,
Seized on the laughing female. At one birth
She brought the brethren, menial here below,
Though sovereigns upon earth, where oft they hold
High revels. 'Mid the monastery's gloom,
Thy palace, Gluttony, and oft to thee
The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice
Episcopal proclaims approaching day
Of visitation; or church-wardens meet
To save the wretched many from the gripe
Of poverty; or 'mid thy ample halls
Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen,
Of coming feast hold converse.
Otherwhere,
For though allied in nature as in blood,
They hold divided sway, his brother lifts
His spongy sceptre. In the noble domes
Of princes, and state-wearied ministers,
Maddening he reigns; and when the affright
Casts o'er a long career of guilt and blood
Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought
To lull the worm of conscience to repose.
He too the halls of country squires frequents;
But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades
Thy offspring Rhedycina, and thy walls,
Granta! nightly libations there to him
Profuse are pour'd, till from the dizzy brain
Triangles, circles, parallelograms,
Moods, tenses, dialects, and demigods,
And logic and theology, are swept
By the red deluge.
Unmolested there
He revels; till the general feast comes round,
The sacrifice septennial, when the sons
Of England meet, with watchful care, to choose
Their delegates, wise, independent men,
Unbribing and unbribed, and chosen to guard
Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp
Of greedy power; then all the joyful land
Join in his sacrifices, so inspired
To make the important choice.
The observing Man
Address'd her guide: “These, Theodore, thou say
Are men, who, pampering their foul appetites,
Injured themselves alone. But where are they,
The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil
Around deluded woman, so to sting
The heart that loves them?”
“Them,” the spirit replied,
“A long and dreadful punishment awaits.
For when the prey of want and infamy,
Lower and lower still the victim sinks,
Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word
One impious imprecation from her lips
Escapes, nay, not a thought of evil lurks
In the polluted mind, that does not plead
Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued,
Against the foul seducer.”
Now they reach'd
The house of Penitence. Credulity
Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head
As though to listen; on her vacant face,
A look that promised premature assent;
Though her Regret behind, a meagre fiend,
Disciplined sorely.
Here they enter'd in,
And now arrived where, as in study tranced,
They saw the mistress of the dome. Her face
Spake that composed severity, that knows
No angry impulse, no weak tenderness,
Resolved and calm. Before her lay the Book,
Which hath the words of life; and as she read,
Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek
Though heavenly joy beam'd in her eye the while
Leaving her undisturb'd, to the first ward
Of this great lazar-house the Angel led
The favor'd Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down
On the hard stone which their bare knees had worn,
In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear'd:
Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave;
Yet such expression stealing from the eye,
As though, that only naked, all the rest
Were one close-fitting mask. A scoffing fiend—
For fiend he was, though wisely serving here—
Mock'd at his patients, and did often strow
Ashes upon them, and then bid them say
Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laugh'd:
For these were hypocrites, on earth revered
As holy ones, who did in public tell
Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves,
And call themselves most miserable sinners,
That so they might be deem'd most pious saints;
And go all filth, and never let a smile
Bend their stern muscles; gloomy, sullen men,
Barren of all affection, and all this
To please their God, forsooth! And therefore Scorn
Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat
Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery
Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer,
They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul
To heaven, then did they not regard his mocks
Which then came painless, and Humility
Then rescued them, and led to Penitence,
That she might lead to Heaven.
From thence they came,
Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band
Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny.
Of a fierce demon. His coarse hair was red,
Pale-gray his eyes, and bloodshot; and his face
Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears
In ecstasy. Well-pleased he went around,
Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some,
Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts,
Or placing coals of fire within their wounds;
Or seizing some within his mighty grasp,
He fix'd them on a stake, and then drew back
And laugh'd to see them writhe.
“These,” said the spirit,
“Are taught by Cruelty, to loathe the lives
They led themselves. Here are those wicked men
Who loved to exercise their tyrant power
On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo
A long purgation here; the traffickers
In human flesh here, too, are disciplined,
Till by their suffering they have equall'd all
The miseries they inflicted, all the mass
Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged,
The villages they burnt, the widows left
In want, the slave or led to suicide,
Or murder'd by the foul, infected air
Of his close dungeon, or, more sad than all,
His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved,
And driven by woe to wickedness.
“These next,
Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room,
With sullen eyes of hatred and of fear
Each on the other scowling, these have been
False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts,
Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts
There is a worm that feeds, and though thou seest
That skilful leech who willingly would heal
The ill they suffer, judging of all else
By their own evil conscience, they suspect
The aid he vainly proffers, lengthening thus
By vice its punishment.”
“But who are these,”
The Maid exclaim'd, “that robed in flowing lawn,
And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps
Like cardinals, I see in every ward,
Performing menial service at the beck
Of all who bid them?”
Theodore replied,
“These men are they who in the name of Christ
Have heap'd up wealth, and arrogating power,
Have made kings kiss their feet, yet call'd themselves
The servants of the servants of the Lord.
They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed,
And in fine linen; therefore are they here;
And though they would not minister on earth,
Here penanced they perforce must minister:
Did not the Holy One of Nazareth
Tell them, his kingdom is not of the world?”

So saying, on they past, and now arrived
Where such a hideous ghastly group abode,
That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye,
And shudder'd: each one was a loathly corpse;
The worm was feeding on his putrid prey;
Yet had they life and feeling exquisite,
Though motionless and mute.
“Most wretched men
Are these,” the angel cried. “Poets thou seest
Whose loose, lascivious lays perpetuated
Their own corruption. Soul-polluted slaves,
Who sate them down, deliberately lewd,
So to awake and pamper lust in minds
Unborn; and therefore foul of body now
As then they were of soul, they here abide
Long as the evil works they left on earth
Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom!
Yet amply merited by all who thus
Have to the Devil's service dedicated
The gift of song, the gift divine of heaven!”

And now they reach'd a huge and massy pile,
Massy it seem'd, and yet with every blast
As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit,
Remorse forever his sad vigils kept.
Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch,
Inly he groan'd, or, starting, wildly shriek'd,
Aye as the fabric tottering from its base,
Threaten'd its fall, and so expectant still
Lived in the dread of danger still delay'd.
They enter'd there a large and lofty dome,
O'er whose black marble sides a dim, drear light
Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp.
Enthroned around, the murderers of mankind,
Monarchs, the great, the glorious, the august,
Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire,
Sat stern and silent. Nimrod, he was there,
First king, the mighty hunter; and that chief
Who did belie his mother's fame, that so
He might be called young Ammon. In this court
Cæsar was crown'd, the great liberticide;
And he who to the death of Cicero
Consented, though the courtly minion's lyre
Hath hymn'd his praise, though Maro sung to him,
And when death levell'd to original clay
The royal body, impious Flattery
Fell at his feet, and worshipp'd the new god.
Titus was here, the conqueror of the Jews,
He the delight of human-kind misnamed;
Cæsars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings,
All who for glory fought, here they were all,
Here in the Hall of Glory, reaping now
The meed they merited.
As gazing round
The Virgin mark'd the miserable train,
A deep and hollow voice from one went forth;
“Thou who art come to view our punishment,
Maiden of Orleans! hither turn thine eye,
For I am he whose bloody victories
Thy power hath render'd vain. Lo! I am here,
The hero conqueror of Agincourt,
Henry of England!—Wretched that I am!
I might have reign'd in happiness and peace,
My coffers full, my subjects undisturb'd,
And Plenty and Prosperity had loved
To dwell amongst them; but in evil hour
Seeing the realm of France, by faction torn,
I thought in pride of heart that it would fall
An easy prey. I persecuted those
Who taught new doctrines, though they taught the truth;
And when I heard of thousands by the sword
Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence,
I calmly counted up my proper gains,
And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate
Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice
Tainting my private life, I sent abroad
Murder and Rape; and therefore am I doom'd,
Like these imperial sufferers, crown'd with fire,
Here to remain, till man's awaken'd eye
Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds;
And warn'd by them, till the whole human race,
Equall