He found that forms were ever taken by the angels and borne away. They reverently bore them--reverencing the beauty, and above all reverencing them as the work of One who had given him aid to think of their creation, and to embody them according to the pure conception. They carried them first to a fountain of waters that flowed from a smitten rock. A crown of thorns, and nails, and a spear, were sculptured there. Washed in this stream every particle was cleansed. Afterwards they held up the form in the most clear light, brighter than the light of any sun, and the beauty became far more perfect.
The angelic laborers then carried each to the mountain of crystal. There it was imbedded,--but in a radiance which was to shine forever, and forever.
And then to his great joy, he found that vast numbers of men came to a summit of an adjoining hill; caring not for the ascent by a narrow and arduous way. They looked into the mountain, and were entranced by the forms that they beheld. He had no thought that they would turn to him in admiration. All that he exulted in, was, that he loved them, and that they turned away to labor to make like forms, for the angelic hands,--for the waters of the cleansing fountain,--for the inexpressible light that purified,--for the place in the mountain, where they should shine eternally.
Just at this moment, a bird perched on the vines around the cell. It poured forth a rich melody of song close to the ear of the sleeper. It awoke him gently from the profound sleep. The first sound which he heard was that of the sweet bell of his village church. Its gushes of sound rolled along the valley, and up the side of the great hills.
He felt that the impressions of his dream were durable. So deeply was he affected, that he scarcely thought of the visions in which the truth had been represented. He descended his path another man. Another man he entered his home. The house was a changed house that day. No one more subdued in spirit than himself, knelt in the church. No one with more determined purpose, heard that day, of the One who "pleased not himself."
Though these sweet flowers are in their freshest bloom, They had a beauty as I gathered them Which thine eye sees not. For with every one New lustre in the varied colors shone, A purer white melted beneath the eye, A sweeter fragrance came from dew-gemmed leaves, Advanced in beauty as I thought of thee.