Black Beetles in Amber

I had a dream. The habitable earth—

Its continents and islands, all were bare

Of cities and of forests. Naught remained

Of its old aspect, and I only knew

(As men know things in dreams, unknowing how)

That this was earth and that all men were dead.

On every side I saw the barren land,

Even to the distant sky's inclosing blue,

Thick-pitted all with graves; and all the graves

Save one were open—not as newly dug,

But rather as by some internal force

Riven for egress. Tombs of stone were split

And wide agape, and in their iron decay

The massive mausoleums stood in halves.

With mildewed linen all the ground was white.

Discarded shrouds upon memorial stones

Hung without motion in the soulless air.

While greatly marveling how this should be

I heard, or fancied that I heard, a voice,

Low like an angel's, delicately strong,

And sweet as music.

—"Spirit," it said, "behold

The burial place of universal Man!

A million years have rolled away since here

His sheeted multitudes (save only some

Whose dark misdeeds required a separate

And individual arraignment) rose

To judgment at the trumpet's summoning

And passed into the sky for their award,

Leaving behind these perishable things

Which yet, preserved by miracle, endure

Till all are up. Then they and all of earth,

Rock-hearted mountain and storm-breasted sea,

River and wilderness and sites of dead

And vanished capitals of men, shall spring

To flame, and naught shall be for evermore!

When all are risen that wonder will occur.

'Twas but ten centuries ago the last

But one came forth—a soul so black with sin,

Against whose name so many crimes were set

That only now his trial is at end.

But one remains."

Straight, as the voice was stilled—

That single rounded mound cracked lengthliwise

And one came forth in grave-clothes. For a space

He stood and gazed about him with a smile

Superior; then laying off his shroud

Disclosed his two attenuated legs

Which, like parentheses, bent outwardly

As by the weight of saintliness above,

And so sprang upward and was lost to view

Noting his headstone overthrown, I read:

"Sacred to memory of George K. Fitch,

Deacon and Editor—a holy man

Who fell asleep in Jesus, full of years

And blessedness. The dead in Christ rise first."