Summons the buried to a happier birth;
But, in Time’s furrow duly scattering,
Think’st thou how deeds, by wisdom sown, may be
Silently ripen’d for eternity?
Schiller.
Up! ’tis no dreaming time! Awake! Awake!
For He who sits on the high Judge’s seat,
Doth in His record mark each wasted hour,
Each idle word. Take heed thy shrinking soul