Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/120

120 —Where the red tropic fiercely burn'd To dark-brow'd Afric next we turn'd, But she, to nameless miseries left, Despis'd,—degraded, crush'd, bereft, Beheld the slave-ship's tireless sail, And heard her fetter'd offspring wail, With gaze forever on the main, Watch'd for their hop'd return, in vain; Night told to night her sleepless care, And ages mock'd her fix'd despair, While her loud anguish woke the wave, Invoking gods that could not save. —Where Ganges rolls his worshipp'd tide, Or glittering Hoogly's waters glide, With lip comprest, and stifled groan The Fakir hardens into stone, While throngs exulting cry, And pilgrims' bones are heedless strown Beneath a torrid sky. What means yon reeking, reddening pile? And whence that widow's madden'd smile? As towards the martyr-couch she goes, Regardless of her children's woes. Away!—I would not longer gaze On barbarous Superstition's maze. —Time chang'd his glass, and bade me see The deeds of heaven-born Charity, When fir'd with zeal her heralds found The farthest globe's benighted bound. And lo! upon the frost-bound shore Of sun-forsaken Labrador, The heaven-ward spire, the sacred song,