This life is to thee like a region enchanted,
O'er which thy rich fancy its rose-color throws;
The hours as they pass thee with visions are haunted,
And thou dream'st them away in inglorious repose.
Around thee bold hearts the rude war are waging,
But thou dreamest on still through the roar and the strife;
Around thee, oh sleeper! the conflict is raging,
And they need thy strong arm in the Battle of Life!