Classic Poem

E'en now methinks, I see the ashes stir
As dawns the Last Day on the sepulchre.
While from mid heav'n the trumpet rolls its wave
Around the bursting precincts of the grave.
A power unknown obscurely ranges through
The dust that bore a human shape and hue;
Slow from the moulder'd heap there grows a form,
Like morn's faint twilight conqu'ring in the storm;
Limb comes to limb, and bone from atom-heaps
To shape, and strength, and place, mysterious creeps;
The withered flesh returns from dark decay,
Fruit of the seed in earth's cold breast that lay;
The eye its glorious form again has found,
The ear is fashion'd for the voice of sound;
The smiling lip is there, but smiles not yet,
The hand is moulded, and the limbs are set.
Earth reels and trembles to her base, beneath
Th' approaching trumpet's dread continuous breath,
Mountains dissolve, and oceans pass away
In chaos, whence erewhile they sprang to-day,
Time ceases at its Maker's high command,
Strange spheres and other natures are at hand—
But still proceeds within the grave's rent span,
Amid a dying world, the birth of man.
That form is perfect now, but motionless;
It stands a statue yet; but see where press
Through swelling veins the tides of crimson glow,
Warmth, strength, and beauty, kindling as they flow.
He moves! there's being now within his breast,
He wakes! that trumpet-blast hath burst his rest;
A smile comes forth, the soul's dawn o'er the night,
And life looks sudden from the eyes in light.