THE DYING INDIAN’S DREAM

Was in the Wigwam heard;

The voice of man, and beast, and bird,

Were hushed—save the deep drawn sigh,

And the feeble wail of the infant’s cry, Soothed by the mother’s sobbing lullaby,

And bursts of grief from children seated nigh, Waiting to see their father die.

Kindred and friends were there,

Gathered for prayer,

To soothe the suffering and the grief to share; And Angel Bands were near,

Waiting with joy to bear

A ransomed spirit to that World on high,

That " Heaven of joy and love, beyond the Sky.”

IV.

He dreamed! the dying Indian dreamed! Flashes of Glory round him gleamed! A bright effulgence beamed From on high, and streamed Far upward and around; it seemed That his work on earth was done, That his mortal course was run,

Life’s battle fought and won; That he stood alone,

Happy, light and free,

Listening to sweetest melody, And softest harmony,

From the etherial plains,

In loud extatic strains,

Such as no mortal ear

Could bear, or be allowed to hear. When suddenly to his wondering eyes, UpStarting to the skies,

A glorious Palace stood;

All formed of burnished gold,

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