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.'