THE DYING rNDIAN’s DREAM

His dying prayer has ceased; Convulsive heaves his breast; We deem him sunk to rest, Breathing his last and best; When suddenly his eyes

He opens on the skies,

And startling us with surprise, He waves his hand and cries:

“ I see, I see the place!

I see my Savior’s face!

Look, children look! your eyes Raise, and look toward the skies! Bright beams of Glory

Come hovering o’er me!

See! see! they’re opening wide, The flaming gates of Paradise! Bright angels downward glide, And standing near my side, They smile and bid me come, To my eternal borne.”

XI.

He dies, the happy Indian dies, Closes his eyes to earth, and flies Up to the region of the skies. Angelic legions lead the way, To the portals of celestial day, Wide spreads the news, all Heaven rings, Angels and ransomed spirits wave their wings, All lowly bending to the King of kings; Mingling their loftiest harmonies, Their sweetest, softest melodies, High Heaven’s eternal minstrelsies, With heart and voice and choral symphonies, Loud as the sounding of ten thousand seas!

They shout him welcome to his heavenly home:

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