Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/175

Rh

Rocks spring terrific to the sky, Rude seas in madness storm, And grimly frowns on Fancy's eye The Druid's awful form, With mutter'd curse and reeking blade, And visage stern with ire, Yet 'mid that darkly blended shade Still bends the stranger sire.

He prays,—the father for his child, The distant and the dear, And when yon abbey o'er the wild Upraised its arches drear, When at high mass, or vesper-strain Rich voices fill'd the air, From all that cowl'd and mitred train Rose there a purer prayer?

His name is on a simple scroll With holy ardor penn'd, Which thrilling warns the sinner's soul To make his God a friend, But when the strong archangel's breath Yon ancient vaults shall rend, And starting from the dust of death These waken'd throngs ascend.

Meek saint! The boldest of the bold That sword or falchion drew, Barons whose feudal glance control'd    Vassal and monarch too,