He dreamed! the dying Indian dreamed!

Flashes of Glory round him gleamed!

A bright effulgence beamed

From on high, and streamed

Far upward and around; it seemed

That his work on earth was done,

That his mortal course was run,

Life’s battle fought and won;

That he stood alone,

Happy, light and free,

Listening to sweetest melody,

And softest harmony,

From the etherial plains,

In loud extatic strains,

Such as no mortal ear,

Could bear, or be allowed to hear.

When suddenly to his wondering eyes,

Upstarting to the skies,

A glorious Palace stood;

All formed of burnished gold,

Solid, of massive mould,

The bright Abode

Of the Creator God!

Ample, vast and high,

Like Earth, and Sea, and Sky,

The Palace of the King of kings,

Where the flaming Seraph sings,

Waving his golden wings;

Where the ransomed sinner brings,

Honour and glory to the Eternal Son,

Casting his dazzling crown,

In lowly adoration down,

Before the blazing Throne,

Of the Eternal Three in One.

But oh! what rapturous sounds!

A shout through Heaven resounds!

Myriads of happy spirits, robed in white,

More pure and bright

Than the noonday light,

Are standing round the Throne,

Of the Eternal One.

Every eye upon him turns,

Every breast with rapture burns,

And trembles the lofty Dome,

As they shout him welcome home—

“John Paul has come! John Paul has come!”