Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/167

The mind had past away, and who could call
Its wing from out the sky? For the embrace
Of strong idolatry, was but the glare
Of a fix'd, vacant eye. Disease had dealt
A fell assassin's blow. Oh God! the blight
That fell on those fresh hopes, when all in vain
The passive hand was grasp'd, while the wide halls
Echoed to "father! father!"
                                       —Through the shades
Of that long, silent night, she sleepless bent,
Bathing with tireless hand the unmov'd brow,
And the death-pillow smoothing. When fair Morn
Came with its rose-tint up, she shrieking clasp'd
Her hands in joy, for its reviving ray
Flush'd that wan brow, as if with one brief trace
Of waking intellect. 'Twas seeming all,
And Hope's fond visions faded, while the day
Rode on in glory. Eve her curtain drew,
And found that pale and beautiful watcher there,
Still unreposing. Restless on his couch,
Toss'd the sick man. Cold Lethargy had steep'd
The last wan poppy in his heart's red stream,
And Agony was stirring Nature up
To struggle with her Spoiler.
                                            "Oh my God!
Would he could sleep!" sigh'd a low, silver voice,
And then she ran to hush the measur'd tick
Of the dull night-clock, and to scare the owl
Which clinging to the casement, hoarsely pour'd
A boding note. But ah! from that lone couch
Thick-coming groans announc'd the foe who strikes
But once. They bare the fainting child away,