All tongues and nations mingle with the clay;
Art thou less subject unto death than they?
The conquerors of the world have left their throne
Before a mandate mightier than their own,--
Rank, pride and power have sunk into the grave,
And Caesar moulders with the meanest slave.
Canst thou escape his all-destroying breath
And bid defiance to the victor Death?
What strange enchantment has allured thine eyes?
Shake off the spell! immortal soul, arise!
Oh, burst thy fetters ere it be too late,
Regain thy freedom and thy lost estate,--
A thousand angels hover round thy track,
They plead with thee, they long to lead thee back.

The sacrifice too great? bethink thee, soul!
A few more suns above thy head may roll,
A few at most and thou wilt trembling stand
Just on the borders of the spirit land.
Who ever stood there calm and undismayed,
And smiled to see all earthly prospects fade?
Not he who lived for things of time alone,
Who won a name, a fortune or a throne;
Who added field to field, and store to store,
And cried at last, "Oh, for one moment more!"
But he whose eye could pierce the dreary tomb,
He who could say amid the gathering gloom,--
"There is my home and there my Saviour stands
With smiling brow and with extended hands!"
Would'st thou depart with that exulting cry,