Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/122

122 —In Burmah's dew-besprinkled soil How blest the laborer's arduous toil; 'Mid danger's blast their seed was sown, The harvest-fruits are God's alone: Press on, firm band! the martyr's sigh On fields like these, is victory. —'Mid China's vale, serenely bold, Their way Salvation's heralds hold, While millions pale with penury's strife, Hear wondering of the bread of life. Broad Ocean's isles in loud acclaim Extol the blest Redeemer's name, And Earth with countless tongues doth pour The echoing praise from shore to shore. —Time pois'd his wing, as if for flight, But of my native land a sight, With patriot ardor I besought, And toward the west, his tube he brought. I look'd, and skies, and vales, and streams Were bright with nature's glorious beams, And from each haunt came swelling by The shout of boasted Liberty; Yet other sounds were on the gale, Of Afric's sons, the bitter wail, The scourge, the chain, the bitter tear Of slavery's lot, what do they here! —I sought the red-brow'd race, who bore Dominion o'er this ancient shore, But lofty king, and chieftain grave, Had vanish'd like the crested wave; Where are those warriors brave and free? The hoarse tomb answer'd "here with me."