Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/19

Rh For cold paralysis did work within The citadel of life. There was a pause Of awful stillness. Had the flickering lamp Fail'd in that passion-gust? The daughter bent In agonizing dread, and wip'd the dew That stood like drops of rain, and laid her cheek Close by the ghastly sleeper,—hoping still To hush him gently to a peaceful dream, As the meek mother lulls her troubled child. But when no more the gasp, or fitful sigh Stole on her, breathless listening,—starting up, She threw the casement higher, and the breeze Blew freshly o'er his brow, while grey-rob'd dawn Did faintly struggle with the stars, to force Her way, the gentle minister of peace To an ungrateful world. Then first the pang Of poignant grief that rives the proudest soul Came over that young creature, and she cried With a loud voice of misery, to him Who pray'd the Christian's prayer, that he would lift The voice of supplication for her sire, Ere it should be too late. There was a sound From that low couch,—a sudden gush of breath, As if the grave did chafe with prison'd winds, Driving them thence. The eye unsealing, flash'd Strange fires, like frost-bound Hecla. Anger rush'd In furious storm-cloud o'er that tortur'd brow, Making Death horrible. "And art thou false, False to our own Great Spirit? Thou, the last