Flutter away, in dreams, all dead and past;—
Fleeting, alike ease that pays righteous toll,
And triumphs won from agonies of soul.
For when Fancy plays at Thought
In Dreamland, Time, Space are nought.
Slumber I, or wake? Is it that the long
Iron Age dies, as in the Sibyl’s song?
Does Justice return? Saturn wear his crown?
From high Heaven does a God-child come down?
Does Pollio’s Consulate