If men were happy in that age of gold,
    We yet may hope to see mild Saturn’s reign;
    For all things that were buried live again,
    By time’s revolving cycle forward rolled. 
Yet this the fox, the wolf, the crow, made bold
    By fraud and perfidy, deny—­in vain: 
    For God that rules, the signs in heaven, the train
    Of prophets, and all hearts this faith uphold. 
If thine and mine were banished in good sooth
    From honour, pleasure, and utility,
    The world would turn, I ween, to Paradise;
Blind love to modest love with open eyes;
    Cunning and ignorance to living truth;
    And foul oppression to fraternity.

XLIII.

THE MILLENNIUM.

Non piaccia a Dio.

Nay, God forbid that mid these tragic throes
    To idle comedy my thought should bend,
    When torments dire and warning woes portend
    Of this our world the instantaneous close! 
The day approaches which shall discompose
    All earthly sects, the elements shall blend
    In utter ruin, and with joy shall send
    Just spirits to their spheres in heaven’s repose. 
The Highest comes in Holy Land to hold
    His sovran court and synod sanctified,
    As all the psalms and prophets have foretold: 
The riches of his grace He will spread wide
    Through his own realm, that seat and chosen fold
    Of worship and free mercies multiplied.

XLIV.

THE PRESENT.

Convien al secol nostro.

Black robes befit our age.  Once they were white;
    Next many-hued; now dark as Afric’s Moor,
    Night-black, infernal, traitorous, obscure,
    Horrid with ignorance and sick with fright. 
For very shame we shun all colours bright,
    Who mourn our end—­the tyrants we endure,
    The chains, the noose, the lead, the snares, the lure—­
    Our dismal heroes, our souls sunk in night. 
Black weeds again denote that extreme folly
    Which makes us blind, mournful, and woe-begone: 
    For dusk is dear to doleful melancholy;
Nathless fate’s wheel still turns:  this raiment dun
    We shall exchange hereafter for the holy
    Garments of white in which of yore we shone.

XLV.

THE FUTURE.

Veggo in candida robba.

Clothed in white robes I see the Holy Sire
    Descend to hold his court amid the band
    Of shining saints and elders:  at his hand
    The white immortal Lamb commands their choir. 
John ends his long lament for torments dire,
    Now Judah’s lion rises to expand
    The fatal book, and the first broken band
    Sends the white courier forth to work God’s ire. 
The first fair spirits raimented in white