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Poem	("Temps futurs.") {Part "Lux," Jersey, Dec. 16-20, 1853.} O vision of the coming time! When man has 'scaped the trackless slime And reached the desert spring; When sands are crossed, the sward invites The worn to rest 'mid rare delights And gratefully to sing. E'en now the eye that's levelled high, Though dimly, can the hope espy So solid soon, one day; For every chain must then be broke, And hatred none will dare evoke, And June shall scatter May. E'en now amid our misery The germ of Union many see, And through the hedge of thorn, Like to a bee that dawn awakes, On, Progress strides o'er shattered stakes, With solemn, scathing scorn. Behold the blackness shrink, and flee! Behold the world rise up so free Of coroneted things! Whilst o'er the distant youthful States, Like Amazonian bosom-plates, Spread Freedom's shielding wings. Ye, liberated lands, we hail! Your sails are whole despite the gale! Your masts are firm, and will not fail— The triumph follows pain! Hear forges roar! the hammer clanks— It beats the time to nations' thanks— At last, a peaceful strain! 'Tis rust, not gore, that gnaws the guns, And shattered shells are but the runs Where warring insects cope; And all the headsman's racks and blades And pincers, tools of tyrants' aids, Are buried with the rope. Upon the sky-line glows i' the dark The Sun that now is but a spark; But soon will be unfurled— The glorious banner of us all, The flag that rises ne'er to fall, Republic of the World!
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