He speaks the word, and death obeys:
Is it the breeze that stirs the shroud?
The stiffened limbs relax, they move
With new and wondrous life endowed.
Life dawns upon the ashen cheek,
Through each cold vein life’s currents run,
The dead man rises from his bier—
The widow clasps her living son!
Oh! ye bereaved ones, whose sad tears
Some loved and lifeless form bedew,