Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/118

118 Of weariness, and haste, and want of time, And duty to his children, and besought A longer space to do the work of Heaven. —God spake again, when Age had shed its snows Upon his temples, and his weary hand Shrank from gold-gathering. But the rigid chain Of Habit bound him, and he still implor'd A more convenient season. "See,—my step Is firm and free, my unquench'd eye delights To view this pleasant world,—and life with me May last for many years. In the calm hour Of lingering sickness, I can better fit For long Eternity." —Disease came on, And Reason fled. The maniac strove with Death, And grappled like a fiend, with shrieks and cries, Till darkness smote his eye-balls and thick ice Settled around his heart-strings. The poor clay Lay vanquish'd and distorted. But the soul, The soul whose promised season never came To hearken to its Maker's will, had gone To weigh His sufferance with its own abuse And bide the audit.