Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/181

Rh Answer me, young man, Thou, who thro' chance and change of time hast trod Thus far, when some with vengeful wrath have mark'd Thy waywardness, or in thy time of woe Deserted thee, or with a rainbow smile Lur'd and forsook, or on thine errors scowl'd With unforgiving memory,—did she? Thy Mother? Child! in whose rejoicing heart The cradle-scene is fresh, the lulling hymn Still clearly echoed, when the blight of age Withereth that bosom, where thine head doth lay, When pain shall paralyze the arm that clasps Thy form so tenderly, wilt thou forget? Wilt thou be weary, tho' long years should ask The patient offices of love to gird A broken mind? Turn back the book of life To its first page. What deep trace meets thee there? Lines from a Mother's pencil. When her scroll Of life is finish'd and the hand of Death Stamps that strong seal, which none but God can break, What should its last trace be? Thy bending form In sleepless love, the dying couch beside, Thy tender hand upon the closing eye, Thy kiss upon the lips, thy prayer to Heaven, The chasten'd rendering of thy filial trust, Up to the white-wing'd angel ministry.