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Now, starting up among the living changed,
Appeared innumerous the risen dead.

Each particle of dust was claimed: the turf,
For ages trod beneath the careless foot

Of men, rose, organized in human form;
The monumental stones were rolled away;

The doors of death were opened; and in the dark
And loathsome vault, and silent charnel house,
Moving, were heard the mouldered bones that sought
Their proper place. Instinctive, every soul
Flew to its clayey part: from grass-grown mould,
The nameless spirit took its ashes up,
Reanimate; and, merging from beneath
The flattered marble, undistinguished rose
The great, nor heeded once the lavish rhyme,
And costly pomp of sculptured garnish vain.
The Memphian mummy, that from age to age,
Descending, bought and sold a thousand times,
In hall of curious antiquary stowed,

Wrapped in mysterious weeds, the wondrous theme
Of many an erring tale, shook off its rags;
And the brown son of Egypt stood beside

The European, his la t purchaser.

In vale remote, the hermit rose, surprised

At crowds that rose around him, where he thought
His slumbers had been single; and the bard,
Who fondly covenanted with his friend,
To lay his bones beneath the sighing bough
Of some old lonely tree, rising, was pressed
By multitudes that claimed their proper dust
From the same spot; and he, that richly hearsed,
With gloomy garniture of purchased wo,
Embalmed, in princely sepulchre was laid,

Apart from vulgar men, built nicely round

And round by the proud heir, who blushed to think
His father's lordly clay should ever mix
With peasant dust,-saw by his side, awake,
The clown that long had slumbered in his arms.

The family tomb, to whose devouring mouth
Descended sire and son, age after age,
In long, unbroken, hereditary line,
Poured forth, at once, the ancient father rude,
And all his offspring of a thousand years.
Refreshed from sweet repose, awoke the man
Of charitable life,-awoke and sung:
And from his prison house, slowly and sad,
As if unsatisfied with holding near

Communion with the earth, the miser drew

His carcase forth, and knashed his teeth, and howled,
Unsolaced by his gold and silver then.
From simple stone in lonely wilderness,
That hoary lay, o'erletter'd by the hand
Of oft-frequenting pilgrim, who had taught
The willow-tree to weep, at morn and even,
Over the sacred spot,-the martyr saint,
To song of seraph harp, triumphant rose,
Well pleased that he had suffered to the death.
"The cloud capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,"
As sung the bard by Nature's hand anointed,
In whose capacious giant numbers rolled
The passions of old Time, fell lumbering down.
All cities fell, and every work of man,

And gave their portion forth of human dust,—
Touched by the mortal finger of decay.

Tree, herb, and flower, and every fowl of heaven,
And fish, and animal-the wild and tame-

Forth with dissolving, crumbled into dust.

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Athens, and Rome, and Babylon, and Tyre,
And she that sat on Thames, queen of the seas,-
Cities once famed on earth, convulsed through all
Their mighty ruins, threw their millions forth.
Palmyra's dead, where desolation sat
From age to age, well pleased in solitude,
And silence,-save when traveller's foot, or owl
Of night, or fragment mouldering down to dust,
Broke faintly on his desert ear,―awoke.
And Salem, holy city, where the Prince
Of Life, by death, a second life secured

To man, and with him from the grave, redeemed,
A chosen number brought, to retinue
His great ascent on high, and gave sure pledge
That death was foiled,-her generations, now,
Gave up, of kings, and priests, and Pharisees:
Nor even the Sadducee, who fondly said,
No morn of resurrection e'er should come,
Could sit the summons; to his ear did reach
The trumpet's voice, and ill prepared for what
He oft had proved should never be, he rose
Reluctantly, and on his face began

To burn eternal shame. The cities, too,
Of old, ensepulchred beneath the flood,

Or deeply slumbering under mountains huge,
That earthquake-servant of the wrath of God-
Had on their wicked population thrown;

And marts of busy trade, 'ong ploughed and sown
By history unrecorded, or the song

Of bard-yet not forgotten their wickedness,
In heaven-poured forth their ancient multitudes,
That vainly wished their sleep had never broke.
From battle fields, where men by millions met
To murder each his fellow, and make sport

To kings and heroes-things long since forgot-
Innumerous armies rose, unbanner'd all,
Unpanoplied, unpraised; nor found a prince,
Or general, then, to answer for their crimes.
The hero's slaves, and all the scarlet troops
Of antichrist, and all that fought for rule,-
Many high-sounding names, familiar once
On earth, and praised exceedingly, but now
Familiar most in hell, their dungeon fit,
Where they may war eternally with God's
Almighty thunderbolts, and win them pangs
Of keener wo, saw, as they sprung to life,
The widow and the orphan, ready stand,
And helpless virgin, ravished in their sport,
To plead against them at the coming doom.
The Roman legions, boasting once, how loud,
Of liberty, and fighting bravely o'er
The torrid and the frigid zone, the sands
Of burning Egypt, and the frozen hills
Of snowy Albion, to make mankind

Their thralls-untaught, that he who made or kept
A slave, could ne'er himself be truly free—
That morning gathered up their dust, which lay
Wide scattered over half the globe; nor saw
Their eagled banners then. Sennacherib's hosts,
Embattled once against the sons of God,
With insult bold, quick as the noise of mirth
And revelry, sunk in their drunken camp,
When death's dark angel, at the dead of night,
Their vitals touched, and made each pulse stand still,
Awoke in sorrow; and the multitudes

Of Gog, and all the fated crew that warred
Against the chosen saints, in the last days,
At Armageddon, when the Lord came down,

Mustering his host on Israel's holy hills,
And, from the treasures of his snow and hail,
Rained terror, and confusion rained, and death,
And gave to all the beasts and fowls of heaven,
Of captains' flesh and blood of men of war,
A feast of many days, revived, and, doomed
To second death, stood in Hamonah's vale.

Nor yet did all that fell in battle rise,
That day, to wailing. Here and there were seen
The patriot bands, that from his guilty throne
The despot tore, unshackled nations, made
The prince respect the people's laws, drove back
The wave of proud invasion, and rebuked
The frantic fury of the multitude,

Rebelled, and fought and fell for liberty

Right understood, true heroes in the speech

Of heaven, where words express the thoughts of him Who speaks; not undistinguished these, though few, That morn arose, with joy and melody.

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