Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/129

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"Væ Vobis," ye whose lip doth lave So deeply in the sparkling wine, Regardless though that passion-wave Shut from the soul, Heaven's light divine, "Væ Vobis,"—heed the trumpet-blast, Fly!—ere the leprous taint is deep, Fly!—ere the hour of hope be past, And pitying angels cease to weep.

"Væ Vobis," ye who fail to read The name that shines where'er ye tread, The Alpha of our infant creed, The Omega of the sainted dead: It glows where'er the pencil'd flowers Their tablet to the desert show, Where'er the mountain's rocky towers Frown darkly o'er the vale below:

Where roll the wondrous orbs on high, In glorious order, strong and fair, In every letter of the sky That midnight writes,—'tis there! 'tis there! 'Tis grav'd on ocean's wrinkled brow, And on the shell that gems its shore, And where the solemn forests bow, "Væ Vobis," ye, who scorn the lore.

"Væ Vobis," all who trust in earth, Who lean on reeds that pierce the breast,