Yet to us dost thou recall,
Memory, what we are and were,
Ere succumbed to earthlier thrall;
Visitations rich and rare,
Lights revealing treasures deep
Hidden, over which we sleep.
So art thou hope's harbinger;
Or rather do I call thee Seer,
When with the prophetic eye,
Lightened from futurity,
Thou, from Pisgah, dost descry
Mighty foreshadowings that to thee appear;
Shapes where settled glories rest,
Drawn not from fading vapours of the west;
When mysterious visitings
Come to us, imaginings
Undefined of glorious things;
Conscious as they come and go,
We are greater than we know;
When the sun's last tinting gleams
Our paradise of outlived dreams;
When rich Music like a spirit,
With its deep unearthly tone,
Tells us all that we inherit
Of a life beyond our own;
When we feel the starry cope
Wakens our immortal hope,
The aching vision and expansion given;
When the Clouds their robes unfold,
And we the beckoning Stars behold
In the recesses fathomless of heaven!