Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/18

18 Draw near its close. Cold dews of suffering stood Upon the rigid temples, and the breath Was like that sob, with which the swimmer breasts The surge that whelms him. Then, a tone subdued And tremulous with pity and with zeal, Breath'd in his ear. “Chieftain! the ice of death Is in thy breast. Doth aught disturb the soul, Or make its passage fearful?" —No reply, Save one impatient gesture from the hand That seem'd a skeleton's. "Hast thou not been A man of blood?—Repent thee! Speak the name Of Jesus, the Redeemer. Let thy thought Ascend with mine, my brother, while I plead Acceptance for thee at the gate of heaven, Through Him, who from the tyrant Death did wrest The victory." But then a hollow voice Brake forth, like smother'd thunders. "Go thy way Thou Christian Teacher! I can deal with Death Alone. Hence! Hence! I charge thee bring no soul That thou hast nurtur'd, to the red man's heaven, For we will drive it thence. My glorious sires!" —And then he murmur'd what they could not hear, But ever and anon, he fiercely rais'd His clenching hand as in the battle strife, To draw the arrow to its utmost head, Or sway the cleaving hatchet. All in vain; Like Priam's dart, the airy weapon fell,