Proud were our men as pride of birth could render,
As violets our women pure and tender;
And when they spoke, their voices’ thrill
At evening hushed the whip poor-will,
At morn the mocking bird was mute and still,
In the land where we were dreaming.
And we had graves that covered more of glory
Than ever taxed the lips of ancient story;
And in our dream we wove the thread
Of principles for which had bled
And suffered long our own immortal dead,
In the land where we were dreaming.
. . . . . . .
Our sleep grew troubled, and our dreams grew wild;
Red meteors flashed across our heaven’s field,
Crimson the moon, between the Twins
Barbed arrows flew in circling lanes
Of light, red comets tossed their fiery manes
O’er the land where we were dreaming.
. . . . . . .
A figure came among us as we slept—
At first he knelt, then slowly rose and wept;
Then gathering up a thousand spears,
He swept across the field of Mars,
Then bowed farewell, and walked among the start,
From the land where we were dreaming.
We looked again—another figure still
Gave hope, and nerved each individual will;
Erect he stood, as clothed with power,
Self-poised, he seemed to rule the hour
With firm, majestic sway—of strength a tower—
In the land where we were dreaming.
As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder god,
Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood,
Rome felt herself secure and free—
So, Richmond! we on guard for thee,
Beheld a bronzèd hero, god-like Lee,
In the land where we were dreaming.