Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/176

176  Proud heroes of the tented field, Kings of a vaunted line, May wish their blood-bought fame to yield For honors won like thine.

 

hath set her crown Upon the Conqueror's head, And bade the awe-struck world bow down Before his banner'd tread. So down the world hath bow'd    Upon her letter'd page, And the wild homage of the crowd Swell'd on from age to age.

What miseries mark'd his way, How oft the orphan wept, How deep the earth in sackcloth lay No trace her annal kept. Though like a torrent's flow The widow's tear gush'd out, The current of that secret woe Quell'd not the victor's shout.

The Gospel's sacred scroll A different standard shows, Its plaudit on the humble soul And contrite, it bestows. 