A childhood land of mountain ways,
Where earthy gnomes and forest fays,
Kind, foolish giants, gentle bears,
Sport with the peasant as he fares
Affrighted through the forest glades,
And lead sweet, wistful little maids
Lost in the woods, forlorn, alone,
To princely lovers and a throne.

Dear haunted land of gorge and glen,
Ah me! the dreams, the dreams of men!

A learned law of wise old books
And men with meditative looks,
Who move in quaint red-gabled towns,
And sit in gravely-folded gowns,
Divining in deep-laden speech
The world's supreme arcana—each
A homely god to listening youth,
Eager to tear the veil of Truth;

Mild votaries of book and pen—
Alas, the dreams, the dreams of men!

A music land whose life is wrought
In movements of melodious thought;
In symphony, great wave on wave—
Or fugue elusive, swift and grave;
A singing land, whose lyric rhymes
Float on the air like village chimes;
Music and verse—the deepest part
Of a whole nation's thinking heart!

Oh land of Now, oh land of Then!
Dear God! the dreams, the dreams of men!

Slave nation in a land of hate,
Where are the things that made you great?
Child-hearted once—oh, deep defiled,
Dare you look now upon a child?

Your lore—a hideous mask wherein
Self-worship hides its monstrous sin—
Music and verse, divinely wed—
How can these live where love is dead?

Oh depths beneath sweet human ken,
God help the dreams, the dreams of men!