If the Deliverer, in his might at last,
Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast,
The beam of truth o’erpowers its dazzled sight,
Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light.
But this will pass away: that spark of mind,
Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined,
Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray,
Born to be foster’d with ethereal day.
Then wilt thou bless the hour when o’er thee pass’d,
On wing of flame, the purifying blast,