Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/224

224  Yet here they slumber'd not. A sigh arose Of ardent supplication, for the friend In durance and in chains. But can ye paint The astonish'd gaze, with which those tearful eyes Did fasten on his features, as he stood Sudden, amid the group? High Heaven had heard The prayer of faith. And heard it not the breath Of gratitude, from every trembling lip, Ascribing glory to the Lord of Hosts, Whose holy angel had his servant freed From the high-handed malice of the Jews, And from the wrath of Herod? Ye, who held The key of prayer, that key which entereth Heaven, How long will ye be doubtful? and how long Seek from brief Earth, the help she cannot give, Choosing her broken cisterns? ''Say! how long?''

 

So, here thou art in ruins, brilliant Vase, Beneath my footsteps. 'Tis a pity, sure, That aught so beautiful, should find its fate, From careless fingers. Fain would I divine Thy history. Who shap'd thy graceful form, And touch'd thy pure, transparent brow with tints 