Classic Poem

Honor from the many nations,
Honor from the scattered people,
Honor much had King Nimaera.
King Nimaera 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 Nimaera;
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 Nimaera,
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 Nimaera,
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 despised.
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 called;
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 revealed.
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 removed.
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 Nimaera'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 moved 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 raised;
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 poured
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 gained.'
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
Thr