Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/17

The sick man drew them as the dew of heaven
Into his fever'd bosom, while the hymn
That swell'd melodious o'er the open grave,
Sooth'd the sad mourner 'mid his heathen woe.
Young children gather'd at his beaming smile,
And learn'd the name of Jesus,—pressing close
To touch his garments, or to feel his hand
Resting upon their heads. Such power hath love
O'er sweet simplicity, ere Sin hath taught
Suspicion's lesson.—
By the bed of death
The Teacher stood, where the grim Sachem fear'd
By many tribes, found in his latest foe
The first that conquer'd him. The man of might
Stretch'd on his couch of skins, supinely lay,
With every nerve unstrung. Around his hut,
The deer's proud antler, and the wampum belt
Dispos'd mid gaudy implements of war,
The well-fill'd quiver, and the feathery plume,
Show'd that pre-eminence which rank doth claim
'Mid penury and pain. One youthful form,
A lonely daughter, last of all his flock,
Tended his dying pillow, with the care
Of native tenderness. The water-gourd
She wept as he rejected,—and her eye
Gleam'd through its tears so beautiful, that none
Who gaz'd, remember'd that her cheek was dark.
She was a gentle creature, and she rose
Parting the raven tresses from her brow,
And bowing down with reverent grace, to meet
The Man of God.
He mark'd the mortal strife