Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/18

Draw near its close. Cold dews of suffering stood
Upon the rigid temples, and the breath
Was like that sob, with which the swimmer breasts
The surge that whelms him. Then, a tone subdued
And tremulous with pity and with zeal,
Breath'd in his ear.
“Chieftain! the ice of death
Is in thy breast. Doth aught disturb the soul,
Or make its passage fearful?"
—No reply,
Save one impatient gesture from the hand
That seem'd a skeleton's.
"Hast thou not been
A man of blood?—Repent thee! Speak the name
Of Jesus, the Redeemer. Let thy thought
Ascend with mine, my brother, while I plead
Acceptance for thee at the gate of heaven,
Through Him, who from the tyrant Death did wrest
The victory."
But then a hollow voice
Brake forth, like smother'd thunders.
"Go thy way
Thou Christian Teacher! I can deal with Death
Alone. Hence! Hence! I charge thee bring no soul
That thou hast nurtur'd, to the red man's heaven,
For we will drive it thence. My glorious sires!"
—And then he murmur'd what they could not hear,
But ever and anon, he fiercely rais'd
His clenching hand as in the battle strife,
To draw the arrow to its utmost head,
Or sway the cleaving hatchet. All in vain;
Like Priam's dart, the airy weapon fell,