’Twas the ominous month of October-- How the memories rise in my soul! How they swell like a sea in my soul!-- When a spirit, sad, silent, and sober, Whose glance was a word of control, Drew me down to the dark Lake Avernus, In the desolate Kingdom of Death-- To the mist-covered Lake of Avernus, In the ghoul-haunted Kingdom of Death. And there, as I shivered and waited, I talked with the Souls of the Dead-- With those whom the living call dead; The lawless, the lone, and the hated, Who broke from their bondage and fled-- From madness and misery fled. Each word was a burning eruption That leapt from a crater of flame-- A red, lava-tide of corruption, That out of life’s sediment came, From the scoriac natures God gave them, Compounded of glory and shame. “Aboard!” cries our pilot and leader; Then wildly we rush to embark, We recklessly rush to embark; And forth in our ghostly Ellida[L] We swept in the silence and dark-- O God! on that black Lake Avernus, Where vampyres drink even the breath, On that terrible Lake of Avernus, Leading down to the whirlpool of Death! It was there the Eumenides[M] found us, In sight of no shelter or shore-- No beacon or light from the shore. They lashed up the white waves around us, We sank in the waters’ wild roar; But not to the regions infernal, Through billows of sulphurous flame, But unto the City Eternal, The Home of the Blesséd, we came. To the gate of the Beautiful City, All fainting and weary we pressed, Impatient and hopeful we pressed. “O, Heart of the Holy, take pity, And welcome us home to our rest! Pursued by the Fates and the Furies, In darkness and danger we fled-- From the pitiless Fates and the Furies, Through the desolate realms of the Dead.” “_Jure Divino_, I here claim admission!” Exclaimed a proud prelate, who rushed to the gate; “_Ave Sanctissima_, hear my petition Holy Saint Peter; O, why should I wait? O, _fons pietatis_, O, glorious flood, My soul is washed clean in the Lamb’s precious blood.” Like the song of a bird that yet lingers, When the wide-wandering warbler has flown; Like the wind-harp by Eolus blown, As if touched by the lightest of fingers, The portal wide open was thrown; And we saw--not the holy Saint Peter, Not even an angel of light, But a vision far dearer and sweeter, Not brilliant nor blindingly bright, But marvellous unto the sight!