But know, that thou must render up the dead, And with high interest too. They are not thine; But only in thy keeping for a season, Till the great promised day of restitution; Then must thy gates fly open, and reveal That twice has stood the torture of the fire, And inquisition of the forge. We know The Illustrious Deliverer of mankind, The Son of God, thee foil'd. Him in thy power (Sure pledge of our releasement from thy thrall!) Athwart the severing clouds; but the faint eye, Flung backwards in the chase, soon drops its hold; Heaven's portals wide expand to let him in; But for his train. It was his royal will, That where he is, there should his followers be. Of all the flowers that paint the further 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 A life well spent, whose early care it was Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting! That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away; Nor shall it hope in vain:-The time draws on, When not a single spot of burial earth, Make up the full account; not the least atom Each soul shall have a body ready furnish'd; Ask not, how this can be? Sure the same pow'r 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 ev'ry 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, and, 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. |