As if Diseases, Massacres, and Poison, Famine, and War, were not thy caterers.
But know, that thou must render up thy dead, And with high interest too: they are not thine; But only in thy keeping for a season,
Till the great promis'd day of restitution, When loud diffusive sound from brazen trump Of strong-lung'd cherub shall alarm thy captives, And rouse the long, long sleepers into life, Day-light, and liberty. . . .
Then must thy gates fly open, and reveal the minds
That lay long forming under ground,
In their dark cells immur'd; but now full ripe,
And pure as silver from the crucible,
That twice has stood the torture of the fire, And inquisition of the forge. We know
Th' illustrious Deliverer of mankind,
The Son of God, thee foil'd. Him in thy power Thou couldst not hold; self-vigorous He rose, And, shaking off thy fetters, soon retook Those spoils his voluntary yielding lent (Sure pledge of our releasement from thy thrall)! Twice twenty days He sojourn'd here on earth, And shew'd Himself alive to chosen witnesses, By proofs so strong, that the most slow assenting Had not a scruple left. This having done, He mounted up to heaven. Methinks I see Him Climb the aerial heights, and glide along Athwart the severing clouds; but the faint eye, Flung backwards in the chase, soon drops its hold, Disabled quite, and jaded with pursuing.
Heaven's portals wide expand to let Him in; Nor are his friends shut out; as some great prince Not for himself alone procures admission,
But for his train: it was his royal will
That where He is, there should his followers be. Death only lies between-a gloomy path! Made yet more gloomy by our coward fears; But nor untrod, nor tedious; the fatigue Will soon go off. Besides, there's no by-road To bliss. Then why, like ill-condition'd children, Start we at transient hardships in the way Which leads to purer air and softer skies, And a ne'er-setting sun? Fools that we are! We wish to be where sweets unwith'ring bloom, But straight our wish revoke, and will not go. So have I seen, upon a summer's even, Fast by the rivulet's brink, a youngster play; How wishfully he looks to stem the tide! This moment resolute, next unresolv'd, At last, he dips his foot; but, as he dips, His fears redouble, and he runs away
From th' inoffensive stream, unmindful now
Of all the flowers which paint the farther bank,
And smiled so sweet of late. Thrice welcome Death! That after many a painful, bleeding step,
Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe
On the long wish'd-for shore. Prodigious change! Our bane turn'd to a blessing! Death disarm'd, Loses its fellness quite: all thanks to Him Who scourged the venom out. Sure the last end Of the good man is peace! How calm his exit ! Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground, Nor weary, worn-out winds expire so soft. Behold him in the evening-tide of life, A life well spent, whose early care it was His riper years should not upbraid his green : By unperceived degrees he wears away; Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting. High in his faith and hopes, look how he reaches
After the prize in view! and, like a bird That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away; While the glad gates of sight are wide expanded To let new glories in-the first fair fruits Of the last coming harvest. Then, O then! Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears, Shrunk to a thing of nought. O how he longs To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd! 'Tis done, and now he's happy! The glad soul Has not a wish uncrown'd.
Rests too in hope of meeting once again Its better half, never to sunder more.
Nor shall it hope in vain: the time draws on When not a single spot of burial-earth, Whether on land or in the spacious sea,
But must give back its long committed dust Inviolate and faithfully shall these
Make up the full account! not the least atom Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale. Each soul shall have a body ready furnish'd; And each shall have his own. Hence, ye profane ! Ask not how this can be. Sure the same power Who rear'd the piece at first, and took it down, Can re-assemble the loose scatter'd parts, And as they were. Almighty God
Has done much more; nor is his arm impair'd Through length of days: and what He can He will:
His faithfulness stands bound to see it done.
When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumb'ring dust, Not unattentive to the call, shall wake;
And every joint possess its proper place,
With a new elegance of form unknown
To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul Mistake its partner; but amidst the crowd, Singling its other half, into its arms
Shall rush, with all the impatience of a man That's new come home, who having long been absent, With haste runs over every different room,
In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting! Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more. "Tis but a night, a long and moonless night, We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. Thus at the shut of even, the weary bird Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day, Then claps his well-fledg'd wings and bears away.
CILENT nymph, with curious eye, Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy man; Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings; Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale;
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