The god now vanishes away from sight,
The hero turns his face toward the light;
Nine kaspu walks, till weird the rays now gleam,
As zi-mu-ri behind the shadows stream. 
He sees beyond, umbrageous grots and caves,
Where odorous plants entwine their glistening leaves. 
And lo! the trees bright flashing gems here bear! 
And trailing vines and flowers do now appear,
That spread before his eyes a welcome sight,
Like a sweet dream of some mild summer night. 
But, oh! his path leads o’er that awful stream,
Across a dizzy arch ’mid sulphurous steam
That covers all the grimy bridge with slime. 
He stands perplexed beside the waters grime,
Which sluggish move adown the limbo black,
With murky waves that writhe demoniac,—­
As ebon serpents curling through the gloom
And hurl their inky crests, that silent come
Toward the yawning gulf, a tide of hate;
And sweep their dingy waters to Realms of Fate.

He cautious climbs the slippery walls of gloom,
And dares not look beneath, lest Fate should come;
He enters now the stifling clouds that creep
Around the causeway, while its shadows sleep
Upon the stream that sullen moves below,—­

He slips!—­and drops his torch! it far doth glow
Beneath him on the rocks!  Alas, in vain
He seeks a path to bring it back again. 
It moves! snatched by a dal-khu’s hand it flies
Away within the gloom, then falling dies
Within those waters black with a loud hiss
That breaks the silence of that dread abyss.

He turns again, amid the darkness gropes,
And careful climbs the cragged, slimy slopes,
And now he sees, oh, joy! the light beyond! 
He springs! he flies along the glowing ground,
And joyous dashes through the waving green
That lustrous meets his sight with rays serene,
Where trees pure amber from their trunks distil,
Where sweet perfumes the groves and arbors fill,
Where zephyrs murmur odors from the trees,
And sweep across the flowers, carrying bees
With honey laden for their nectar store;
Where humming sun-birds upward flitting soar
O’er groves that bear rich jewels as their fruit,
That sparkling tingle from each youngling shoot,
And fill the garden with a glorious blaze
Of chastened light and tender thrilling rays. 
He glides through that enchanted mystic world,
O’er streams with beds of gold that sweetly twirled
With woven splendor ’neath the blaze of gems
That crown each tree with glistening diadems. 
The sounds of streams are weft with breezes, chant
Their arias with trembling leaves,—­the haunt
Of gods!  O how the tinkling chorus rings!—­
With rhythms of the unseen rustling wings
Of souls that hover here where joy redeems
Them with a happiness that ever gleams.