THE
RESURRECTION
A
POEM
.
THE
Pencil's
glowing
Lines
and
vast
Command
,
And
Mankind
rising
from
the
Painter's
Hand
,
The
awful
Judge
array'd
in
beamy
Light
,
And
Spectres
trembling
at
the
dreadful
sight
,
To
sing
,
O
!
Muse
,
the
pious
Bard
inspire
,
And
waken
in
his
Breast
the
Sacred
Fire
.
The
hallow'd
Field
,
a
bare
white
Wall
of
late
,
Now
cloath'd
in
gaudy
Colours
,
shines
in
State
;
And
lest
some
little
Interval
confess
It's
ancient
simple
Form
,
and
homely
Dress
,
The
skilful
Artist
laid
o'er
every
Part
,
The
first
Foundation
of
his
future
Art
,
O'er
the
wide
Frame
his
ductile
Colours
led
,
And
with
thick
Daubings
all
the
Wall
o'erspread
.
As
e'er
you
spangling
Orbs
were
hung
on
high
,
Lest
one
great
Blank
should
yawn
thro'
boundless
Sky
,
Thro'
the
wide
heavenly
Arch
,
and
trackless
Road
In
Azure
volumes
the
pure
Aether
flow'd
;
The
Sun
at
length
burns
out
,
intensely
bright
,
And
the
pale
Crescent
sheds
her
borrow'd
Light
;
With
thick-sown
Stars
the
radiant
Pole
is
crown'd
,
Of
milky
Glories
a
long
Tract
is
found
,
O'erflows
,
and
whitens
all
the
Heav'ns
around
.
So
when
the
Groundwork
of
the
Piece
was
laid
,
Nor
yet
the
Painter
had
his
Art
display'd
,
With
slower
Hand
,
and
Pencil
more
divine
He
blends
each
Colour
,
heightens
ev'ry
Line
,
Till
various
Forms
the
breathing
Picture
wears
,
And
a
mute
Groupè
of
Images
appears
.
Celestial
Guards
the
topmost
height
attend
,
And
Crouds
of
Angels
o'er
the
Wall
descend
;
With
their
big
Cheeks
the
deaf'ning
Clarions
wind
,
Whose
dreadful
Clangors
startle
all
Mankind
;
Ev'n
the
Dead
hear
;
the
Lab'ring
Graves
Conceive
,
And
the
swoln
Clod
in
Picture
seems
to
heave
:
Ten
thousand
Worlds
revive
to
better
Skies
,
And
from
their
Tombs
the
thronging
Coarses
rise
.
So
when
fam'd
Cadmus
sow'd
the
fruitful
Field
,
With
pregnant
Throws
the
quicken'd
Furrow
swell'd
;
From
the
warm
Soil
sprung
up
a
warlike
Train
,
And
Human
harvests
cover'd
all
the
Plain
.
And
now
from
ev'ry
Corner
of
the
Earth
The
scatter'd
Dust
is
call'd
to
second
Birth
;
Whether
in
Mines
it
form'd
the
rip'ning
Mass
,
Or
humbly
mix'd
,
and
flourish'd
in
the
Grass
:
The
sever'd
Body
now
unites
again
,
And
kindred
Atoms
rally
into
Men
;
The
various
Joynts
resume
their
ancient
Seats
,
And
ev'ry
Limb
its
former
Task
repeats
.
Here
an
imperfect
Form
returns
to
Light
,
Not
half
renew'd
,
dishonest
to
the
Sight
;
Maim'd
of
his
Nose
appears
his
blotted
Face
,
And
scarce
the
Image
of
a
Man
we
trace
:
Here
by
Degrees
infus'd
,
the
vital
Ray
Gives
the
first
Motion
to
the
panting
Clay
:
Here
on
the
guilty
Brow
pale
Horrors
glare
,
And
all
the
Figure
labours
with
Despair
.
From
Scenes
like
these
now
turn
thy
wond'ring
Sight
,
And
,
if
thou
can'st
withstand
such
Floods
of
Light
,
Look
!
where
thy
SAVIOUR
fills
the
middle
Space
;
The
Godhead
op'ning
in
his
awful
Face
;
See
!
what
mild
Beams
their
gracious
Influence
shed
,
And
how
the
pointed
Radiance
crowns
his
Head
!
Around
his
Temples
lambent
Glories
shine
,
And
on
his
Brow
sits
Majesty
Divine
;
His
Eye-balls
lighten
the
Celestial
Fires
,
And
ev'ry
Grace
to
Speak
the
God
conspires
.
How
chang'd
from
him
,
who
came
to
be
Betray'd
,
And
who
for
Man
the
precious
Ransom
paid
!
Who
did
on
Earth
such
arduous
Toils
sustain
,
And
patient
bore
an
irksom
Life
of
Pain
:
But
Death
and
Hell
subdu'd
,
the
Deity
Ascends
Triumphant
to
his
native
Sky
;
And
rising
far
above
th'
Aethereal
Height
,
The
Sun
and
Moon
diminish'd
to
his
Sight
.
And
now
to
View
he
bare'd
his
bleeding
side
,
And
his
pierc'd
Hands
and
Feet
,
in
Crimson
dy'd
;
Still
did
the
Nails
the
recent
Scars
reveal
,
And
bloody
Tracks
of
the
transfixing
Steel
.
Hither
in
Crouds
the
Blessed
shape
their
Flight
,
And
throng
the
Mansions
of
Immortal
Light
;
The
fruitful
Matron
and
the
spotless
Maid
,
And
Infants
,
with
a
longer
Life
repaid
,
Stand
round
;
and
drinking
in
Celestial
Rays
,
On
their
REDEEMER
fix
with
ardent
Gaze
,
And
all
the
Heav'ns
resound
with
Hymns
of
Praise
.
Each
Bosom
Kindles
with
Seraphic
Joy
,
And
conscious
Raptures
all
the
Soul
employ
.
Not
equal
Raptures
swell
the
Sybil's
Breast
,
When
by
the
inmate
Deity
possess'd
;
When
Phoebus
the
Prophetic
Maid
inspires
,
And
her
Limbs
tremble
with
convulsive
Fires
.
But
whence
this
sudden
Blaze
of
dazling
Light
!
What
Mitred
Brow
is
that
,
which
greets
my
Sight
?
Forth
from
a
stately
Tomb
he
lifts
his
Head
,
And
to
the
Skies
on
Angels
Wings
is
sped
.
I
know
the
Form
—
alike
the
Look
and
Mien
,
Another
William
Wainflet
,
Bishop
of
Winchester
.
He
was
the
Founder
of
Magdalen
College
,
and
the
Hall
adjoining
.
WAINFLET
in
his
Face
is
seen
:
When
will
,
alas
!
such
spotless
Worth
be
found
?
When
will
a
Mind
with
equal
Virtues
crown'd
?
Fearless
he
sees
almighty
Vengeance
rise
,
And
fixes
on
his
GOD
his
guiltless
Eyes
.
But
now
far
different
Scenes
our
Wonder
claim
,
Horrent
with
Darkness
and
Malignant
Flame
;
The
labour'd
Wall
delusive
Picture
hides
And
liquid
Sulphur
rolls
in
burning
Tides
;
So
Strong
,
so
fierce
,
the
painted
Flames
arise
,
The
pale
Spectator
views
them
with
surprize
;
Believes
the
blazing
Wall
indeed
to
burn
,
And
fears
the
Frame
should
into
Ashes
turn
.
Hither
in
ghastly
Crouds
the
Guilty
haste
,
Obscene
with
Horrour
and
with
shame
defac'd
;
With
haggard
Looks
the
gloomy
Fiends
appear
,
They
gnash
their
foamy
Teeth
,
and
frown
severe
.
A
stern
Avenger
,
with
relentless
Mind
,
Waving
a
flamy
Faulchion
,
stalks
behind
;
With
which
,
as
once
from
Paradise
he
drove
,
He
drives
the
Sinner
from
the
Joys
above
.
What
shall
he
do
forlorn
?
or
whither
fly
,
To
shun
the
Ken
of
an
All-seeing
Eye
?
What
would
he
give
amongst
the
Just
to
shine
,
And
fall
before
Omnipotence
Divine
?
But
oh
!
too
late
in
Sighs
he
vents
his
Woe
,
Too
late
his
Eyes
with
gushing
Tears
o'erflow
!
Vain
are
his
Sighs
and
fruitless
are
his
Tears
,
Vengeance
and
Justice
stop
th'
Almighty's
Ears
.
See
!
with
what
various
Charms
the
Piece
is
fraught
,
And
with
what
pregnant
Marks
of
Judgment
wrought
!
With
how
much
Grace
the
living
Colours
glow
!
Not
brighter
Colours
paint
the
watry
Bow
;
When
the
fresh
Show'rs
her
various
Lustre
share
,
And
ev'ry
Drop
with
Spangles
decks
the
Air
.
O
!
may
the
Painter's
Labours
never
fade
,
Nor
wastful
Time
their
shining
Charms
invade
,
'Till
the
first
Dawn
of
that
Eternal
Light
,
Which
by
his
fruitful
Pencil
shines
so
Bright
.
FINIS
.