Each waiting soul must claim his own, when the archangel soundeth,
And all the fields, and all the hills, shall move a mass of life;
Bodies numberless crowding on the land, and covering the trampled sea,
Darkening the air precipitate, and gathered scatheless from the fire;
The Himalayan peaks shall yield their charge, and the desolate steppes of Siberia,
The Maelström disengulph its spoil, and the iceberg manumit its captive:
All shall teem with life, the converging fragments of humanity,
Till every conscious essence greet his individual frame;
For in some dignified similitude, alike, yet different in glory,
This body shall be shaped anew, fit dwelling for the soul: