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THE DYING INDIAN’S DREAM

Solid, of massive mould,

The bright Abode

Of the Creator God!

Ample, vast and high,

Like Earth, and Sea, and Sky,

The Palace of the King of kings, Where the flaming Seraph sings, Waving his golden wings;

Where the ransomed sinner brings, Honor and glory to the Eternal Son, Casting his dazzling crown,

In lowly adoration down,

Before the blazing Throne,

Of the Eternal One.

Every eye upon him turns,

Every breast with rapture burns, And trembles the lofty Dome,

As they shout him welcome home— “ John Paul has come! John Paul has come!”

V.

He woke! the dying Indian woke Opened his eyes and spoke; A heavenly radiance broke From his bright beaming eye, And with a loud exultant cry, And clear ringing voice, In the soft accents of his native tongue, And in glowing imagery, Suited to the theme, Like that of the Immortal Dreamer’s Dream, In Bedford’s mystic “ Den,” whose fame,

He’d never heard, nor knew the “ Pilgrim’s” name—

Or that Sublimer Song, By John of old, in Patmos’ Prison sung, To the Celestial Throng;—