"'Tis FINISH'D,"—at those words creation throbs,
Round Hell's dark universe the echo rolls—
All Nature is unthroned—and mountains quake
Like human being when the death-pang comes—
The sun has wither'd from the frighted air,
And with a tomb-burst, hark, the dead arise
And gaze upon the living, as they glide
With soundless motion through the city's gloom,
Most awfully,—the world's Redeemer dies.