Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/163

Rh  To moulder all unbound. The Grave alone Shall do this office for us. Why, O Grave! Giver of rest to Earth's o'erladen ones, Whose love doth shame our friendship, and whose care Treasureth what Memory scatters,—why with haste Of bitter loathing, turn we from thine arms?

 

is a festive strain within the walls Of the Eternal City, and high praise Unto the glorious dead. Beauty doth twine Her votive wreath, and Eloquence and Song In eulogy burst forth. To whom, O Rome, Mid all thy heroes, all thy demi-gods, Thy purple-rob'd and mitred ones, to whom Riseth this homage? But she wav'd her hand And pointed me in silence as of scorn Unto a stranger-band. Yes, there they stood, The children of that Western Clime which slept In embryo darkness, when tiara'd Rome In all the peevish plenitude of power Call'd Earth her footstool. There they stood serene, True sons of that fair realm which needeth not The faded pomp of royal pageantry To trick her banner. Wheresoe'er they roam Whether 'mid Andes' canopy of cloud, Or the sunk cells of groping Labrador, 