What know we of the glorious sights which bless an infant’s dream?
Or, could we guess them, what more meet to be a poet’s theme?
The hope that e’en a glimpse of such my numbers might make known,
To fond Imagination brings a day-dream of its own.
’Tis of a child of five years old, upon whose peaceful sleep
Fair visions of another world with silent footsteps creep;
Soft as the dew on summer flowers, or moonlight on the sea,
The influence of that blissful dream to Fancy seems to be.
The cheek, upon the pillow prest, wears joy’s delightful tinge,
The eyes are clos’d, yet joy’s bright tear steals through the eyelids’ fringe;
The lips are voiceless, yet they wear the sweetest smile of bliss—
A smile so sweet, it well might chide the fondest mother’s kiss.
Thou happy sleeper, might I tell where now thy spirit roams,
The lot it shares—how poor would seem the joys of proudest domes!
Fame, wealth, and grandeur, never yet a pleasure could impart
So pangless and so pure as those which now possess thy heart.
For thou art in the land of thought, and far hast left behind
The fading happiness of earth, for raptures more refined;
Thine seems a foretaste of the boon appointed for the blest,
“Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”
Thy spirit’s yet unfolded bud may seem too young to share
The full effulgence of the light, which bursts around thee there;
Thy “vital spark of heavenly flame” may shine with trembling ray
Amid the sunless, moonless blaze of heaven’s unclouded day.
Yet in thy measure, Fancy deems, thy soul may now partake
Those glories which the harps and songs of angels ever wake;
And to thy sight unconsciously are transient glimpses given,
Whose bright beatitudes fulfil a child’s sweet dream of heaven.
And is it not a lovely scene that greets thy vision now,—
Where gratitude warms every breast, and joy lights every brow?
Where tears are wiped from every eye, and sickness comes not near,
And hope, in certainty fulfill’d, has banish’d every fear?
What seest thou in that realm sublime?—the spirits of the just
Made perfect through the blood of Him in whom they placed their trust?
The tuneful seraph host that raise their songs around the throne,
Giving to God and to the Lamb the praise that is their own?
Or look’st thou on the tree of life, whose foliage yet may heal
The nations, and the earlier curse of Eden’s tree repeal?
Or gazest thou upon that stream, like clearest crystal bright,
Proceeding from Jehovah’s throne and glorious from his light?
Vain though it seem to ask or think, what sight and forms divine
May rise in slumber’s tranquil hour on spirits pure as thine;
Not wholly so, if while he sings, within the minstrel’s soul
The influence of such heavenly themes may earth-born cares control.
Sleep, happy dreamer, sleep in peace; and may thy mental powers
By visions such as these be nurs’d for future waking hours;
That so from death’s last dreamless sleep thy Spirit may ascend,
To know the fulness of all joy in glory without end!