Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/173

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One, where no lingering ill can harm, One, where no stroke of fate can sever, Where nought but holiness doth charm, And all that charms shall live forever.

 

thou, 'tis gain to die? And may I ask How thou hast weigh'd, and by what process brought The Apostle's answer to thy sum of life? Where are thy balances, and whose firm hand Did poise therein thy talents and their use To show such blest result? Time's capital Needs well be husbanded, to leave the amount Of gain behind, when at a moment's call The spirit fleets, and the dissolving flesh Yields to the earth-worm's fang. Say, hath thy lip Too often satiate, loath'd the mingled cup So madly fill'd at Pleasure's turbid stream? Or hath thine ear, the promises of hope Drank on in giddy sickness, till the touch Of grave philosophy, their emptiness Detected, and to their thin element Of air, reduc'd? Or doth thy cheated heart Sowing its warm affections on the wind And reaping but the whirlwind, turn with scorn From every harvest which these changeful skies Can ripen or destroy? Then hast thou prov'd 