he future may disclose;

More oft the truth is darkened,
And lying fantasy
Deceives the affrighted sleeper
With cunning treachery.

To him whose life is holy
The things that are concealed
Lie open to his spirit
In radiant light revealed;

But he whose heart is blackened,
With many a sin imbued,
Sees phantoms grim and ghastly
That beckon and delude.

So in the Egyptian dungeon
The patriarch of old
Unto the king's two servants
Their fateful visions told:

And one is brought from prison
The monarch's wine to pour,
One, on the gibbet hanging,
Foul birds of prey devour,

He warned the king, distracted
By riddles of the night,
To hoard the plenteous harvests
Against the years of blight.

Soon, lord of half a kingdom,
A mighty potentate,
He shares the royal sceptre
And dwells in princely state.

But ah! how deep the secrets
The holy sleeper sees
To whom Christ shows His highest,
Most sacred mysteries.

For God's most faithful servant
The clouds were rolled away,
And John beheld the wonders
That sealed from mortals lay.

The Lamb of God, encrimsoned
With sacrificial stains,
Alone the Book can open
That destiny contains.

By His strong hand is wielded
A keen, two-edged brand
That, flashing like the lightning,
Smites swift on either hand.

Before His bar of judgment
Both soul and body lie;
He whom that dread sword smiteth
The second death shall die.

Yet mercy tempers justice,
And few the Avenger sends
(Whose guilt is past all pardon)
To death that never ends.

To Him the Father yieldeth
The judgment-seat of Heaven;
To Him a Name excelling
All other names is given.

For by His strength transcendent
Shall Antichrist be slain,
And from that raging monster
Fair trophies shall He gain:

That all-devouring Dragon,
With blood of martyrs red,
On whose abhorred power
John's solemn curse is laid.

And thus the proud usurper
Of His high name is cast
By Him, the true Christ, vanquished
To deepest hell at last.

Upon the saint heroic
Such wondrous slumber falls
That, in the spirit roaming,
He treads heaven's highest halls.

We may not, in our weakness,
To dreams like these aspire,
Whose souls are steeped in error
And evil things desire.

Enough, if weary bo