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, etherial 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, tho’ now more musically sweet Than ever yet had thrill’d her charmed soul, 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 combin’d, 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 tho’ it be and painful, for the grave Is but the threshold of Eternity. Favour’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 lengthened breath Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach A wide expanded den where all around Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze, Flamed dreadful. 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 for ever thus He toil’d and toil’d, of toil to reap no end 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, Tho’ he the Blessed Teacher of mankind Hath said, that easier thro’ the needle’s eye Shall the huge camel pass,[5] than the rich man Enter the gates of heaven. “Ye cannot serve Your God, and worship Mammon.” “Missioned Maid!” So spake the Angel, “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; scorched by these fierce fires, And frequent deluged by the o’erboiling ore: