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��With burning lamps, amid their secret bowers,
Counting the watches of the weary hours.
In patient hope the Bridegroom's voice to hear,
And see his banner in the clouds appear :
But when the morn returning chased the night.
These stars, that shone in darkness, sunk in light :
Luther, like Phosphor, led the conquering day.
His meek forerunners waned, and pass'd away/
Ages roU'd by, the turf perennial bloom'd O'er the lorn relics of those saints entomb'd; No miracle proclaim'd their power divine. No kings adorn'd, no pilgrims kiss'd their shrine ; Cold and forgotten in the grave they slept; But God remember'd them : — their Father kept A faithful remnant ; — o'er their native clime His Spirit moved in his appointed time. The race revived at his almighty breath, A seed to serve him, from the dust of death.
�� �
