So last night in my dream This uncle came to me and said to me: “‘Aeneas’ Whistler you shall found a city. You’ve built Fort Dearborn, that is the beginning. Imperial Rome could be put in a corner Of this, the city which you’ll found. Fear not The wooden horse, but have a care for cows: I see ships burning on your muddy Tiber, And toppling walls.” I dreamed I felt the heat. But then a voice said “Where’s your little boy George Washington?”--come sit on father’s knee, And hear about my dream--there little boy! Well, as I said, I felt the heat and then I felt the cruelest cold and then the voice: “You cannot come to Russia with your boy, He’ll make his way.” I woke up with these words, And found the covers off and I was cold. And then no sooner did I fall asleep Than this old uncle re-appeared and said: “A race of heroes shall descend from you, Here shall a city stand greater than Rome.” With that he seemed to alter to a witch, A woman’s form, the voice of him changed too, And said: “I’m Mother Shipton, Captain Whistler. “Men through the mountains then shall ride, “Nor horse nor ass be by their side”-- Think, gentlemen, what it would be to ride In carriages propelled by steam! And then This dream became a wonder in a wonder Of populous streets, of flying things, of spires Of driven mist that looked like fiddle strings From tree to tree. Of smoke-stacks over-topping The tallest pine; of bridges built of levers, And such a haze of smoke, and cloud like shapes Passing along like etchings one by one: Cathedrals, masts as thick as hazel thickets, And buildings great as hills, and miles of lights. Till by some miracle the sun had moved, And rose not in the east but in the south. And shone along the shore line of the Lake, As he shines o’er the Lake when he arises, And makes an avenue of gold, no less This yellow sand took glory of his light. And where he shone it seemed an avenue, And over it, where now the dunes stretch south, Along the level shore of sand, there stood These giant masses, etchings as it were! And Mother Shipton said: “This is your city. “A race of heroes shall descend from you; “Your son George Washington shall do great deeds. “And if he had a son what would you name him?” Well, as I went to sleep with thoughts of Sarah And praises for James Abbott, it was natural That I should say “I’d name him after James.” “Well done” said Mother Shipton and then vanished.... I woke to find the sun-light in my room, And from my barracks window saw the Lake Stirred up to waves slate-colored by the wind; Some Indians loitering about the fort. They knew this was James Abbott’s wedding day, And Sarah’s day of leaving.