Classic Poem

T HE Reapers , when from toil they rest,
With harvest are in Autumn blest;
But, often as the barn they fill,
It is the Peasant's labour still.
The seed improv'd is yet the same ,
That prompts the will, and crowns the aim;
The offspring of each new supply
Feeds to consume, and lives to die.
No elements like these controul
The seed that forms a human soul:
'Tis born Corruption's destin'd prey,
Clad in the vesture of decay;
But incorruptible its throne
When off its earthly veil is thrown;
'Tis born a weak and frail machine,
Though heir to Life's eternal scene;
In sleep its partner can deceive,
And seems to die when sure to live;
Ascends, with brighter spirit plum'd,
By Nature's tempest unconsum'd,
When the corruptible is gone,
To put its Incorruption on.
And, when this mortal eye shall see
Its robe of Immortality,
Then shall the saying come to pass,
Though faintly seen through earth its glass,
Death, swallow'd up in Victory,
Has made the captive spirit free;
No sting shall that fell scorpion save —
And where is now the conquering grave?