Chapter I

God, when I turn the leaves of that dark book
Wherein our wisest teach us to recall
Those glorious flags which in old tempests shook
And those proud thrones which held my youth in thrall;

When I see clear what seemed to childish eyes
The gorgeous colouring of each pictured age;
And for their dominant tints now recognise
Those prints of innocent blood on every page;

O, then I know this world is fast asleep,
Bound in Time's womb, till some far morning break;
And, though light grows upon the dreadful deep,
We are dungeoned in thick night. We are not awake.

The world's unborn, for all our hopes and schemes;
And all its myriads only move in dreams.