VIII.

And if it be a dream,-- If the great Future be the little Past 'Neath a new mask, which drops and shows at last The same weird, mocking face to balk and blast,-- Yet, Muse, a gladder measure suits the theme, And the Tyrtæan harp Loves notes more resolute and sharp, Throbbing, as throbs the bosom, hot and fast: Such visions are of morning, Theirs is no vague forewarning, The dreams which nations dream come true, And shape the world anew; If this be a sleep, Make it long, make it deep, O Father, who sendest the harvests men reap! While Labor so sleepeth His sorrow is gone, No longer he weepeth, But smileth and steepeth His thoughts in the dawn; He heareth Hope yonder Rain, lark-like, her fancies, His dreaming hands wander Mid heart's-ease and pansies; "'Tis a dream! 'Tis a vision!" Shrieks Mammon aghast; "The day's broad derision Will chase it at last; Ye are mad, ye have taken, A slumbering kraken For firm land of the Past!" Ah! if he awaken, God shield us all then, If this dream rudely shaken Shall cheat him again!