Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/162

162  Thy thorny journey to the gate of Heaven? Up, 'tis no dreaming-time! awake! awake! For He who sits on the high Judge's seat, Doth in his record note each wasted hour, Each idle word. Take heed, thy shrinking soul Find not their weight too heavy, when it stands At that dread bar, from whence is no appeal. Lo, while ye trifle, the light sand steals on Leaving the hour-glass empty, and thy life Glideth away,—stamp wisdom on its hours.

 

in a faithful breast our frailties hides Breathing them not to the invidious ear, But with oblivions mantle covering all? Friendship? Alas! Her most immaculate shrine Hath sometimes yielded to the traitor's key, And she with Luna's ever-varying phase Reveal'd her own infirmity. The Grave, The voiceless Grave shall be to thee a friend Who breaks no promise and no trust betrays. —What hand our virtues decks with fadeless bloom, Throwing fresh fragrance o'er their timid buds? Memory? —Ah, no!—She, like a reaper blind, Or impotent with age, oft gathereth tares Into her garner, and doth leave the wheat 