Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/158

158 That clasping thus a daughter's hand, Her earnest guidance fondly heeding, Thou turn'st thee toward that trampled land 'Neath many a poison'd arrow bleeding.

And wherefore turn'st thou?—To restore The ancient boast of Nile's dark billow Which cradled Science calmly bore Like Moses on his reed-twin'd pillow? To bid stern Cheop's mountain-height Aspire, while vassal realms are weeping? Or rouse again the buried might Of Carthage, 'mid her ashes sleeping?

Ah no.—To dry the burning tear, To stifle murderous War's commotion, To bid the slave-ship homeward steer Unfreighted, o'er accusing Ocean, To plant on lone Liberia's height Undaunted Freedom's stainless streamer, And bear to those who grope in night Glad tidings of a blest Redeemer.

Go on thy way, thou Queen of Isles! Sahara's sands shall bloom before thee, And Niger, 'mid his sinuous wiles Waft clouds of breathing incense o'er thee, And lo! this young and ardent West Rehearsing grateful Afric's story, Shall grave upon her filial breast, Proud record of a Mother's glory.