I Dream of Gory Days

I dream of dread and gory days.

Which come this world to chaos casting.
While o'er its ruining works and ways

The new world rises everlasting.
Could I but hear, could I but hear
The trumpet's blare to carnage calling!

I scarce can wait till on my ear
The summons sounds, to some appalling.
Then to the saddle quick I'd spring,
My mettled steed with joy bestriding,,

And haste to join the noble ring
Of heroes, who to fight are riding.

And should a spear-thrust pierce my breast,
There will be One — a fair thought this is —

By whom my wound will then be dressed,
My pain assuaged by balmy kisses.

If taken captive I should be,

This One, my dungeon's gloom adorning,
Will surely come to visit me,

In radiance like the star of morning.

And should I die, and should I die
On scaffold or 'mid cannons' rattle,

This One with tears will then be nigh
To wash away the blood of battle.