Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/121

Rh The Pastor and his listening throng, With Christian hope and love supplied The gifts that rigorous Earth denied. And from the classic clime, behold! The cloud of Moslem wrath had roll'd Yet no proud lay of Attic lore Nor bacchanal with maddening roar Peal'd from that sunny coast, But infant voices lisping came Of knowledge, and a Saviour's name, Winning for Greece a higher fame Than heathen annals boast. Thou too, Oh Afric! undismay'd, Reclining 'neath thy palm-trees shade, Dost mark with rapture's thrilling tide, Enfranchis'd thousands seek thy side, With filial hand thy tears to dry And found an empire for the sky. —Sad Zion! doth thy footstep stray Far from thy temple-shrine away? Sweet is the breath of Sharon's rose, In limpid silver Siloah flows, And Hermon woos the scented air, Where art thou, blinded exile! where? Return, thou homeless and opprest, And 'neath Messiah's sceptre rest. On waken'd India's sultry shore, The Suttee's flame aspires no more, And idol-ear, and thundering gong And haughty priest, and pagan throng Recede, as darkness fades away Before the morning's golden ray.