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قراءة كتاب The Dying Indian's Dream A Poem
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class="dramaline">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!”
V.
He woke! the dying Indian woke
Opened his eyes and spoke:
A heavenly radiance broke
From his bright beaming eye,
And with a loud exultant cry,
And clear ringing voice,
In the soft accents of his native tongue,
And in glowing imagery,
Suited to the theme,
Like that of the Immortal Dreamer’s Dream,
In Bedford’s mystic “Den,” whose fame,
He’d never heard, nor knew the “Pilgrim’s” name,—
Or that Sublimer Song,
By John of old, in Patmos’ Prison sung,
To the Celestial Throng;—
Whose dazzling visions of the Throne,
He’d never read, or heard, or known;
He told the visions of his head,
While slumbering upon his bed;
And spoke of those unutterable joys
Prepared on high,
Beyond the sky,
For sinners saved in Jesus when they die.
VI.
With mute amaze,
And earnest gaze,
Seated round his cot
Entranced, and to the spot
Enchained, we listen to the story,
Catching glimpses of the glory;
As though the echoing roll
From the Eternal Hill,
In