Now wakes; is on the wing: and where, oh! where,
Will the swarm settle?—When the trumpet’s call,
As sounding brass, collects us, round Heaven’s throne
Conglobed, we bask in everlasting day, 941
(Paternal splendour!) and adhere for ever. 942
Had not the soul this outlet to the skies,
In this vast vessel of the universe,
How should we gasp, as in an empty void!
How in the pangs of famish’d hope expire?
How bright my prospect shines! how gloomy, thine!