The Boy’s Dream.

Through a narrow casement window1
                        
                        The solemn moonbeams crept2
                        
                        Into a chamber quaint and old,3
                        
                        Where childhood calmly slept.4
                        
                        They rested on the walnut press5
                        
                        And the antique mirror bright,6
                        
                        And threw across the oaken floor7
                        
                        A line of cold pale light.8
                        They showed a boy of eight years old9
                        
                        Within the dark-green bed ;10
                        
                        A child of sturdy form and mind—11
                        
                        Such as old England bred.12
                        
                        Power rested on his infant brow,13
                        
                        Pale in the ghostly ray ;14
                        
                        A dormant spirit stern and high—15
                        
                        To dawn in manhood’s day.16
                        No cherub face of mirth asleep17
                        
                        Was his ;  no child-like smile18
                        
                        Lingered upon the firm-set lip ;19
                        
                        No pleasant dreams beguile20
                        
                        His haunted slumbers. Lo, he starts !21
                        
                        Does the moon’s clear cold beams22
                        
                        Mar his repose, or are his thoughts23
                        
                        Troubled by evil dreams ?24
                        Look how he proudly rises up,25
                        
                        And lifts his tiny hand26
                        
                        As though he grasped a warrior’s sword27
                        
                        Or baton of command.28
                        
                        No mortal eye save his can see29
                        
                        A giant form of gloom,30
                        
                        Which, robed in ghostly majesty,31
                        
                        Stands in the quiet room,32
                        And offers to his infant grasp33
                        
                        The shadow of a crown—34
                        
                        Then with a laugh of mocking scorn35
                        
                        Casts the rich bauble down.36
                        
                        No one save he can hear the voice37
                        
                        That murmurs,  ‘ It is thine !38
                        
                        Thou crownless lord of future years—39
                        
                        Foe to the throne and shrine !’40
                        ‘ Thou shalt be first in England’s realm, —41
                        
                        And by my power shalt reign42
                        
                        When meteors lead the land astray,43
                        
                        And truth is sought in vain.44
                        
                        I am thy genius, Oliver,45
                        
                        Whether for good or ill ;46
                        
                        Lord of fair England shalt thou be—47
                        
                        Yer law thine iron will.’48
                        The deep voice ceased ;  a cloud obscured49
                        
                        The moon ;  a shadow deep50
                        
                        Lingered, then passed—the form was gone51
                        
                        And Cromwell woke from sleep.52
                        
                        It was a dream—only a dream,53
                        
                        And such we idle rate !54
                        
                        Yet ofttimes in the solemn night55
                        
                        We hear the voice of Fate.56
                        The soul unveils her secrets dark57
                        
                        That shun our waking eye,58
                        
                        And shows the latent seed from whence59
                        
                        Springs forth our destiny.60
                        
                        ‘ The wish is father to the thought’61
                        
                        That frames those visions wild—62
                        
                        The ambition of the future man63
                        
                        Had whispered to the child !64