elected saints To their apportion'd Heaven! and thy Son, At thy right hand, shall smile with conscious joy On all his past distresses, when for them He bore humanity's severest pangs. Then shalt thou seize the avenging scimitar, And, with a roar as loud and horrible As the stern earthquake's monitory voice, The wicked shall be driven to their abode, Down the immitigable gulf, to wail And gnash their teeth in endless agony.

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Rear thou aloft thy standard.—Spirit, rear Thy flag on high!—Invincible, and throned In unparticipated might. Behold Earth's proudest boasts, beneath thy silent sway, Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while, Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush Of mighty generations, as they pass To the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stamp Thy signet on them, and they rise no more. Who shall contend with Time—unvanquish'd Time, The conqueror of conquerors, and lord Of desolation?—Lo! the shadows fly, The hours and days, and years and centuries, They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall, The young are old, the old are in their graves. Heard'st thou that shout? It rent the vaulted skies; It was the voice of people,—mighty crowds,— Again! 't is hushed—Time speaks, and all is hush'd; In the vast multitude now reigns alone Unruffled solitude. They all are still; All—yea, the whole—the incalculable mass, Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains.

Rear thou aloft thy standard.—Spirit, rear Thy flag on high, and glory in thy strength. But do thou know the season yet shall come, When from its base thine adamantine throne Shall tumble; when thine arm shall cease to strike, Thy voice forget its petrifying power; When saints shall shout, and Time shall be no more. Yea, he doth come—the mighty champion comes, Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death wound, Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors, And desolate stern Desolation's lord. Lo! where he cometh! the Messiah comes! The King! the Comforter! the Christ!—He comes To burst the bonds of Death, and overturn The power of Time.—Hark! the trumpet's blast Rings o'er the heavens! They rise, the myriads rise— Even from their graves they spring, and burst the chains Of torpor,—He has ransom'd them,...

Forgotten generations live again, Assume the bodily shapes they own'd of old, Beyond the flood:—the righteous of their times Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy. The sainted mother wakes, and in her lap Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave, And heritor with her of Heaven,—a flower, Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stain Of native guilt, even in its early bud. 

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