Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/60

Oh parted year!—how many a name
High on the sun-bright lists of fame,
Thou, with thy black and blotting pen
Hast stricken from the scroll of men.

I see a train of funeral gloom,
On Auburn's mount, a new made tomb,
Thou, nurtur'd 'neath a German sky,
With noble form, and piercing eye,
Why cam'st thou to our vales,—to die?
We hop'd thy wisdom to explore,
And calmly weigh thy treasur'd lore,
And feel, while fled the glowing hour,
Of eloquence, and truth the power,
But no!—we mourn thy sever'd span,
Spurzheim!—the friend of mind and man,
And sadly give thy native skies,
More than a stranger's sympathies.

Another knell is on the blast,
And art thou gone, the last,—the last,
Our only link that bound sublime
The present, to the ancient time?
Sage of pure mind, and patriot hand,
The last of that illustrious band,
Who in the day of fear and blood
Firm round their cradled country stood,
With diamond Egis dar'd the strife,
And gave their signet for her life,
Carroll!—though many a year had shed
Its whiteness o'er thy reverend head,
Yet as the Oak, when storms divide
Its lofty compeers from its side,