Light at Last

The sleep of the Dreamer is dying;

The Dream is about to be born:
'Tis the Vision of England untying
The crown of poor Ireland's Thorn!

The Night with its phantoms is flying,
And we shall see clearer at morn:

We feel the first airs that come sighing,
New life to awaken; and warn
Of a Light in which tears shall be drying,
And hell-fire no longer can burn:

Immortals with mortals are vieing
To lift up the fall'n and forlorn:

Our old Earth shall cease from her crying,
Nor vainly to Heaven will yearn:

We stand 'twixt the dawning and dying,
That mingle their Verge and their Bourne:

The Past with its Shroud-Shadows trying
To hide its face, tortured and torn;

The Future before us Enskying
A glimpse of Millennial Morn:

'Tis the Vision of England untying
The crown of poor Ireland's Thorn j
And the sleep of the Dreamer is dying: