Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/175

Rocks spring terrific to the sky,
    Rude seas in madness storm,
And grimly frowns on Fancy's eye
    The Druid's awful form,
With mutter'd curse and reeking blade,
    And visage stern with ire,
Yet 'mid that darkly blended shade
    Still bends the stranger sire.

He prays,—the father for his child,
    The distant and the dear,
And when yon abbey o'er the wild
    Upraised its arches drear,
When at high mass, or vesper-strain
    Rich voices fill'd the air,
From all that cowl'd and mitred train
    Rose there a purer prayer?

His name is on a simple scroll
    With holy ardor penn'd,
Which thrilling warns the sinner's soul
    To make his God a friend,
But when the strong archangel's breath
    Yon ancient vaults shall rend,
And starting from the dust of death
    These waken'd throngs ascend.

Meek saint! The boldest of the bold
    That sword or falchion drew,
Barons whose feudal glance control'd
    Vassal and monarch too,