Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/30

By misery furrow'd o'er, in strongest lines,
Like some deep-trac'd phylactery, reveal'd
Prophetic sentence of their fated race,
Which unrelenting Destiny should waste,
Till like the mighty Mastodon, it leave
Nought save its bones among us.
In the heart
Of Zinzendorff, their murmur'd farewell tones
Dwelt,—a perpetual cadence, prompting oft
The interceding prayer. It duly rose
Ere the bright morn sprang up from Ocean's bed,
Or when amid his garniture of clouds
Purple and gold, the gorgeous Sun retir'd
Into his kingly chamber. Then a voice
As of a father for an outcast son,
O'er whom his pity yearns, blent with the sigh
And surging thunder of the sleepless wave,
Bearing the sorrows of the wandering tribes
To Mercy's ear.
Nor were their souls forgot
By their kind shepherd, mid the joys of home,
While 'neath his own ¹¹ baronial shades, he sought
To spread a banner o'er the sect he lov'd,—
That peaceful sect, which like the man who lean'd
On Jesus breast at supper, best imbib'd
The spirit of his love.
Hail! ye who went
Untiring teachers to the heathen tribes,
And kneeling with your barbarous pupils, shap'd
Their rude articulations into prayer.
Ye fear'd nor tropic suns, nor polar ice,
Nor subterranean cell. Ye did not shrink