Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/26

The expected trophy of that soft, brown hair,
Sprinkled with early grey. The warriors spake
With troubled tone.
"Father and Prophet, hear!
We found him in his tent. Alone he sat,
Like some unwelcom'd stranger. Pity came
Into our breasts, so mournful was his brow.
Still was his death-doom deep within our souls,
For so we promis'd thee. But then he bow'd
His knee to earth, and with a tender voice
Did pray for Indians.
To the white man's God
He bore our nation, with a brother's heart:
Yea, even for our little ones besought
A place in heaven. But still we firmly grasp'd
The murderous knife, for so we promis'd thee.
Then, with a feathery instrument, he trac'd
That speaking leaf, by which the pale-fac'd men
Bewitch and bow the mind. On the white page
He seem'd to press his soul, and pour it out,
As the bruis'd plant doth give its essence forth
From every leaf and fibre. While we gaz'd,
Lo! the dread king of venomous serpents came,
The fatal rattle-snake. ⁷ So then we saw
That our Great Spirit sent Death's messenger,
To punish him. We waited to behold
His swollen visage, and his eyes suffus'd
With mortal pain.
Prophet! we speak the truth!
Believe our words. Close coiling at his feet,
With brightening tints, and wrath-enkindled eyes,
The reptile lay. But then, as if subdued