As fate's stern prophet lifts the fearful pall,
And shows the future to his straining eyes.
Oh! shall that vision paint this glorious vale
With happy millions o'er its bosom spread—
Or ghastly scenes where battle taints the gale
With brother's blood by brother's weapon shed?
Away, ye phantom fears—the scene is fair,
Down the long vista of uncounted years;
Bright harvests smile, sweet meadows scent the air,
And peaceful plenty o'er the scene appears.