Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/222

222 That in the feebleness of four score years, Thou, with unshrinking hand dost pitch thy tent Near the rude billows of the Michigan, And mark in that far land, young life start forth In vigor and in beauty and in power, Where erst the Indian and the panther dwelt, Sole lords? It was a bold emprise to change The robe of science and of minstrelsy, Worn from thy cradle onward, for the staff Of the rough emigrant. Again I look'd, His lamp had faded, and the learned page Was clos'd within his study. The blest book Of God's great love to man, was open still: Where was the eye that ponder'd it? the heart That priz'd it more than Greek or Roman lore? —There was a shroud, a pall, a tender sigh Of Woman's grief, and 'neath the broken sods Of that New World, the patriarch poet lies, "And dust to dust concludes our noblest song." —Master and friend! until this feeble lyre In silence moulders, till my heart forget The thrill of gratitude, the love of song, The praise of virtue, shall thine image dwell Bright with the beauty of benignant age In my soul's temple-shrine.