Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Pestilence
THE PESTILENCE.
I hear it on the blast. There is a sound
Of heavy pinions on the midnight cloud,
A wailing riseth from the strong man's couch:
He with the busiest of the throng did mix
When morning shone, and now ere set of sun,
The gasp and death-cry warn thee where he lies,
—Death treadeth on the heels of buoyant health,
Leaving no interval for shrift or prayer.
The hearse doth meet us wheresoe'er we turn,
And pass unheeded, like a household thing.
The angel of Destruction walks his round,
At noon-day in the city, and the tomb
Doth gather riches till its treasure-vaults
O'erflow. Around their mournful board at eve,
The stricken and diminished circle draw,
Each on the other fixing that sad glance
Which asks, "who next?" While every heart responds,
"Lord is it I?" But 'mid the mournful homes
Where pallid fear and agony chastise
Each wonted joy,—say, are there none who read
In all earth's change the counsels of the skies?
None, who close wrapped in panoply divine,
Show their faith's value in this hour of need?
Up, ye who follow with unshrinking step
Him who o'ercame the grave,—up, trim your lamp,
And do his holy will. Amid the haunts
Of poverty and pain, with angel-step
Send forth your bounty. On the cherished field
Where God hath given you nurture, fix the eye,
As one who soon may leave it. Lurks there aught
Of tare or bramble, in your hallowed bower?
Amid the vineyard of your dearest hopes,
Lurks there no root of bitterness?—no seed
Of truth unsown, which you would fain have watched
Unto the harvest? Are there olive-plants
Around your table, and do baleful weeds
Corrupt their root, or with their blossoms twine?
Go to your work with diligence, as one
Whose time is short. Strike to the secret heart
A searching glance,—and if aught linger there,
Though shrouded cunningly,—one evil germ,—
Be firm in extirpation, and invoke
The aid of that pure spirit, who doth deign
To dwell in fleshly temples and prepare
Equal for life or death, the trusting soul.