A thousand changing phantoms
    She fashions through the night,
  And ’midst a world of fancy
    Pursues her rapid flight.

  But divers are the visions
    That night to dreamers shows;
  Rare gleams of straying splendour
    The future may disclose;

  More oft the truth is darkened,
    And lying fantasy
  Deceives the affrighted sleeper
    With cunning treachery.

  To him whose life is holy
    The things that are concealed
  Lie open to his spirit
    In radiant light revealed;

  But he whose heart is blackened,
    With many a sin imbued,
  Sees phantoms grim and ghastly
    That beckon and delude.

  So in the Egyptian dungeon
    The patriarch of old
  Unto the king’s two servants
    Their fateful visions told: 

  And one is brought from prison
    The monarch’s wine to pour,
  One, on the gibbet hanging,
    Foul birds of prey devour,

  He warned the king, distracted
    By riddles of the night,
  To hoard the plenteous harvests
    Against the years of blight.

  Soon, lord of half a kingdom,
    A mighty potentate,
  He shares the royal sceptre
    And dwells in princely state.

  But ah! how deep the secrets
    The holy sleeper sees
  To whom Christ shows His highest,
    Most sacred mysteries.

  For God’s most faithful servant
    The clouds were rolled away,
  And John beheld the wonders
    That sealed from mortals lay.

  The Lamb of God, encrimsoned
    With sacrificial stains,
  Alone the Book can open
    That destiny contains.

  By His strong hand is wielded
    A keen, two-edged brand
  That, flashing like the lightning,
    Smites swift on either hand.

  Before His bar of judgment
    Both soul and body lie;
  He whom that dread sword smiteth
    The second death shall die.

  Yet mercy tempers justice,
    And few the Avenger sends
  (Whose guilt is past all pardon)
    To death that never ends.

  To Him the Father yieldeth
    The judgment-seat of Heaven;
  To Him a Name excelling
    All other names is given.

  For by His strength transcendent
    Shall Antichrist be slain,
  And from that raging monster
    Fair trophies shall He gain: 

  That all-devouring Dragon,
    With blood of martyrs red,
  On whose abhorred power
    John’s solemn curse is laid.

  And thus the proud usurper
    Of His high name is cast
  By Him, the true Christ, vanquished
    To deepest hell at last.

  Upon the saint heroic
    Such wondrous slumber falls
  That, in the spirit roaming,
    He treads heaven’s highest halls.

  We may not, in our weakness,
    To dreams like these aspire,
  Whose souls are steeped in error
    And evil things desire.