Classic Poem

Know , weary Pilgrim, that not far remote
From this o'er-peopled tract of modern time,
So humming with the ever-restless wheels
Of commerce and material industry,—
A sacred spot there is, from the rude mass
Of vulgar recollections far retired
(O'er the green plain approach'd where Peter sits
Tending his happy sheepfold evermore);
A sacred spot—the cynosure of earth,
And central in the labyrinth of years,
Midway betwixt the two eternities
Of Past and Future. There upon a sward
Of aromatic and most emerald grass,
A temple stands, well worthy of thy gaze.

Shap'd circular, in pure chalcedony,
And with a circling row of golden pillars
Encoronall'd—four porticoes it has,
To earth's four quarters open; which at first
Of mean appearance seem—but presently
To Faith's clear-vision'd and unfaltering eye
Expanding, as she gazes, soar aloft
From height to height, and in the clouds are lost.
Archangels guard the gates with flaming swords,
The same, 'tis said, who at an earlier day
Did man unparadise; but now to man
For His dear sake, who died on Calvary,
Propitious grown, his entrance they invite
With most benignant smiles; excluding only
Spirits of power malign, who formerly
Infested all the plain. Once enter'd in,
You find yourself beneath a spacious dome,
Within a Sanctuary most august,
Abode of absolute tranquillity!
Where not a footfall echoes! Round the sides
A circuit fair of jewell'd chapelries,
Each with its mystic altar greets the eye,
Each with its mystic window, upon which
In blended tints of vivid imagery
Glows the blest history of the Son of Man
Ineffably portray'd. And evermore
Myriads of worshippers, in spirit borne
From earth's far ends, with mute enravishment
Those courts perambulate, and wholly lost
In musing ecstasy, upon the scenes
Of that dread Life of lives adoring gaze.

Central beneath the dome, a palmlike fount
Of purest living light, in thousand jets
Incessant plays, and with its overflow
A sapphire basin fills, in whose clear depth
All Heaven reflected shines. Around it stand
The four divine Historians; and thence
For all who come, in golden chalices,
The sparkling water draw, which whoso drink
Drink endless life. Ah, then, without delay
Haste, Pilgrim, to that Temple, passing by
Whatever else invites thee; there obtain
Rest from thy weariness; and there enjoy
Celestial consolations! Vain is all
The world can show, with those delights compar'd.