Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/130

130  Who toss the bubble-cup of mirth, Or grasp ambition's storm-wreath'd crest: Who early rise, and late take rest, In Mammon's mine, the care-worn slave, Who find each phantom-race unblest, Yet shrink reluctant from the grave.

 

them bending o'er that holy page, Whose breath is immortality. There seemed No sadness on their features; to their limbs No fetters clung; and they whose early years Had told dark tales of wretchedness and shame, Lifted a calm, clear eye. Amazed, I asked, Is this a prison? and are these the men Whom Justice from the world's sweet fellowship Hath sternly severed? But a voice replied, God's spirit hath been here. Serene it came Into the cells where guilt and punishment Rivet their chains, making the victim's life A hated burden, and his hope despair! It came! Rebellion laid his weapons down; The flinty breast grew soft: the rugged brow Gave channels for the tear of penitence; And souls, which sin had blotted from their race 