Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/21

Rh And ranging in mute circle on the lawn Beside his dwelling. There a towering line Of warriors gather'd, such as ne'er had blench'd To follow where he pointed, tho' the earth Were saturate with blood, or the keen lance Of ambush glitter'd thro' the quivering leaves. Now, sad of heart, with heads declin'd they stood, As men who lose the battle. Flocking still, Came mothers with their sons. A nation mourn'd Like one vast family. No word was spoke, As when the friends of desolated Job, Finding the line of language all too short To fathom woe like his, sublimely paid That highest homage at the throne of Grief, Deep silence. Now the infant morning rais'd Her rosy eyelids. But no soft breeze mov'd The forest lords to shake the dews of sleep From their green coronals. The curtaining mist Hung o'er the quiet river, and it seem'd That Nature found the summer night so sweet, That mid the stillness of her deep repose She shunn'd the wakening of the King of Day. —But there, beneath a broad and branching Elm Stood forth the holy man, in act to speak. There was a calmness on his pallid brow, That told of heaven. His stainless life had flow'd Pure as his creed. Had the whole warring world With passion quaked, he would have made himself A green oasis 'mid the strife of tongues, And there have dwelt secure.