The Pilgrim

Afar, above sorrow and peril,
He sees the Bright City unfold
Its walls of sardonyx and beryl,
Of chrysoprase, jacinth and gold,
Its galaxied turrets and portals,
Its glories that never grow dim,
While, crowning its splendor, immortals
Wave welcome, a welcome to him.

Below him, he watches the regions
Of death and the shadow of death;
He hears the oncoming of legions
Who threaten with flamings for breath;
Behind them Hell luridly lightens,
The smoke of its torment ascends;
But calmly his armor he tightens
And swiftly to battle descends.

Thus doeth the valiant pure-hearted,
The lofty, the leader of men;
Thus vanquished the noble departed
Whose trophies remain to our ken;
They blenched not for labor or sorrow;
They charged, though Avernus might glow.
Then so let me meet my to-morrow,
Though bucklered and cuirassed with woe.