Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/145

Rh His aged mother bending low With poverty and care, Sent forth a feeble wail of woe,— Where was the soothing prayer?

They bare him through his cultured land, They halted not to weep; That corn was planted by his hand, Who shall its harvest reap? On, on, beneath his favorite trees That coffin'd corpse they bear, A sighing sound was on the breeze, But still no voice of prayer.

Where his own plough had broke the soil, A narrow grave was made, And 'mid the trophies of his toil The Emigrant they laid; But none the balm of Heaven to shed, With priestly power was there, No hallow'd lip above the dead To lift the voice of prayer.