Around me I saw in a desolate heap

The relics of those who had slept their death-sleep,

In the midst of the valley, all reckless and bare,

Like the hope of my country, lie withering there,—

"Son of man! can these dry bones, long bleached in decay,

Ever feel in their flesh the warm beams of the day;

[Pg 62]

Can the spirit of life ever enter again

The perishing heaps that now whiten the plain?"

"Lord, thou knowest alone, who their being first gave:

Thy power may be felt in the depths of the grave;

The hand that created again may impart

The rich tide of feeling and life to the heart.

"Lo, these dry bones are withered and shrunk in the blast,

O'er their ashes the tempests of ages have past;

And the flesh that once covered each mouldering frame

With the dust of the earth is re-mingled again:—

At the voice of their God, son of man, they shall rise;

The light shall revisit their death-darkened eyes;

Their sinews and flesh shall again be restored,

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