Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/125

Rh Say, what heathen lip In its strange accent told him, that on earth Nought now remain'd to heal his wounded heart, Save that lone famish'd infant? Days of care Were meted to him, and long nights of grief Weigh'd out, and then that little, wailing one Went to her mother's bosom, and slept sweet 'Neath the cool branches of the Hopia-tree. 'Twas bitterness to think that bird-like voice, Which sang sweet hymns to please a father's ear, Must breath no more. This is to be alone! Alone in this wide world. Yet not without A comforter. For the true heart that trusts Its all to Heaven, and sees its treasur'd things Unfold their hidden wing, and thither soar, Doth find itself drawn upward in their flight, And poising higher o'er this vale of tears, And gathering bright revealings of its home, Doth from its sorrows weave a robe of praise.