12
Now when the storm more feebly blows,
And cold plants creep through wasted snows,
When summer lifts her fleeting wings,
With ardour to his task he springs,
Blesses the hand that gilds the scene,
And kindly spreads the sky serene.
Nor wintry storms to him are drear,
Though hoarse they thunder in his ear,
Who in his humble cell at rest
Feels peace divine inspire his breast;
And sees fair hope in roseate bloom
Descend to share his clay built room.
Thus to his silent grave he goes,
And meekly sinks to long repose,
In firm belief at last to hear
The strong Archangel rend the sphere,
The trump proclaim the day of doom,
A hand break up his ice-bound tomb,
And bear him where no pain shall come,
No winter shroud the scene with gloom,
No stream congeal, no tempest rise,
No gloomy cell or darken'd skies,
No withering plant, no flinty soil,
Or pining want, or fruitless toil,
No lamp emit a glimmering ray,
No setting sun forsake the day;
But light shall beam before unknown
From Him who sits upon the throne,
