Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/19

For cold paralysis did work within
The citadel of life.
                                 There was a pause
Of awful stillness. Had the flickering lamp
Fail'd in that passion-gust?
                                     The daughter bent
In agonizing dread, and wip'd the dew
That stood like drops of rain, and laid her cheek
Close by the ghastly sleeper,—hoping still
To hush him gently to a peaceful dream,
As the meek mother lulls her troubled child.
But when no more the gasp, or fitful sigh
Stole on her, breathless listening,—starting up,
She threw the casement higher, and the breeze
Blew freshly o'er his brow, while grey-rob'd dawn
Did faintly struggle with the stars, to force
Her way, the gentle minister of peace
To an ungrateful world. Then first the pang
Of poignant grief that rives the proudest soul
Came over that young creature, and she cried
With a loud voice of misery, to him
Who pray'd the Christian's prayer, that he would lift
The voice of supplication for her sire,
Ere it should be too late. There was a sound
From that low couch,—a sudden gush of breath,
As if the grave did chafe with prison'd winds,
Driving them thence. The eye unsealing, flash'd
Strange fires, like frost-bound Hecla. Anger rush'd
In furious storm-cloud o'er that tortur'd brow,
Making Death horrible.
                                      "And art thou false,
False to our own Great Spirit? Thou, the last