Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/20

20 Of all my nested warblers,—dost thou turn, And pluck the wing that shelter'd thee? I would That He who hurls the lightning!"but the curse Froze on his lip, and with a hideous groan As if in combat with some giant-foe, Who to his lion heart had found the way, He wrestled and fell back, to rise no more. —Then rose the sob of weeping, and the prayer Of earnest faith. It was a fearful scene,— Death, and young sorrow, and unearthly zeal, Dividing that low mansion. But the space Was brief for such companionship. The tramp, And heavy tread of many hasting feet Came echoing o'er the threshhold; for the throng Who held their Sachem as a god, did shrink To see him die. But now the deed was done, And the stern Chief lay as the powerless babe, They who would tremble at his awful glance, And do his bidding with a spaniel's dread, Now casting off their abject terror, stood Closest beside him. From the weaker sex Burst forth a tide of sympathy, to soothe The orphan maid: for pity cannot quit Her hold on woman, whatsoe'er her garb Or lineament may be, howe'er the sun Have burnt dark tints upon her, or the yoke Of vassalage and scorn have bow'd her low, Still doth her spirit at another's pain Vibrate, as the swept lyre.— 'Twas sad to see Those hoary elders pacing one by one, So slow and mournful from their fallen chief,