DREAMS OF HEAVEN.

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BY M. E. THROPP.

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IRREGULAR LINES.

From orient climes to the lands that glow

In the last red light of even,

Indian, Paynim, Moslem, Jew—

All have their dreams of Heaven.

The Moslem dreams of a green, fair clime,

Lit up by the sun’s broad beams,

Where flowers gaze down at their own bright forms

In still transparent streams;

Where soft winds sigh, and gay birds sing,

In tones so sweetly clear;

Where palm groves rustle cool and still,

And bright-eyed Houries cheer;

Where the banquet waits, with its viands crowned,

And the wine-cup’s rosy gleam,

While soft luxuriant bowers around,

Invite to recline and dream:

Such is the vision of future bliss

To the Prophet-followers given—

The “true-believer’s” goal of hope,

The Moslem’s dream of Heaven,

The Indian dreams of a sunset land,

Where the great Manitto reigns;

Where deer and stately bison roam

O’er broad, uncultured plains.

A land whose giant lakes and streams,

With gleaming fish abound;

Where forests wave, and mountains tower—

A boundless hunting-ground.

’Tis his dream, as he calmly looks abroad

On the sunset glow, at even—

A hunting-ground, where that sun sinks down,

Is the Indian’s dream of Heaven.

The Jew of his New Jerusalem dreams,

With its streets of shining gold,

And temples, that rival the regal fane

On Moriah’s brow of old.

Still dreams, that Judah’s harps shall sound,

And Judah’s pennons stream,

Where now muezzin’s calls are heard,

And Moslem crescents gleam.

Zion rebuilt, and the land restored,

To his forefathers given,

Is the Hebrew exile’s guerdon high,

His earnest here of Heaven.

The Norseman chief, in the olden times,

Sprang up, with Valkyriur calls

Ringing shrill and clear in his dreaming ear—

“Up! come to ‘Valhalla’s Halls!’”

Would ye know how the chieftain sought those halls?

—Away to the battle-plain—

The warrior sleeps on the ghastly heaps,

His own red sword has slain!

Visions of blood, in that dying hour,

To his stormy soul were given—

Feasts, and victorious battle-fields,

Were the Norseman’s dreams of Heaven.

The Greek had high, ambitious dreams,

Of Elysium’s fabled clime;

The Druid too—ah, many and strange,

Were the dreams of olden time.

How will those dreams accord with thee,

When time exists no more,

Unseen, unknown, unpictured realm

Beyond the silent shore?

Now, shines the gospel sun, the mists

Of Error roll away;

And earth, from pole to central zone,

Rejoices ’neath its sway.

Like some tired wanderer of the deep,

The Christian struggles on;

While day and night, in calm or storm,

How yearns his heart for home!

Dreams he of sensual joys? the chase?

Some ruined city, lone?

Of feasts and battle-fields? Not so—

His is a spirit-home.

To Him, who formed yon glorious sky,

This green enameled sod,

The Christian trusts his future home—

His architect—is God.

COL. WASHINGTON AT THE BATTLE OF COWPENS. Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine by S. H. Gimber