VI.

Is all but a dream, O my mother, as, plain in your sight, These march on their star-lit way? Or see you, through casements celestial, on Heaven's bright floor, Some earnest of Heaven's new day, When all things on earth, or in heaven, or in hell's blackest night, Bow down to give praise evermore-- When they sing the new song of release from earth's sorrow and thrall To Him who, though born in a manger, is King over all?