Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/23

Rh One ink-drop on a solitary thought, Hath stirr'd the mind of millions. Where a cliff Doth beetle rudely from the mountain's breast, And dripping with a chilly moisture, make Perpetual weeping,—was a lonely cave! Rock-ribbed and damp.—There dwelt an aged man, Fear'd as a prophet by the unletter'd race Who sought his counsel, when some work of guilt Did need a helper. Wondrous tales they told Of dark communion with a shadowy world, And of strange power to rule the demon shapes That shriek'd and mutter'd in his cell, when storms At midnight strove. Of his mysterious date The living held no record. Palsying Age The elastick foot enchain'd, which erst would climb The steep unwearied—and the wither'd flesh Clos'd round each sinew with a mummy's clasp; As if some gaunt and giant shape, embalm'd At Thebes or Memphis, when the world was young, Should from its stain'd sarcophagus, protrude The harden'd limb, and send a grating sound From the cold, lungless breast. And there he dwelt, Austere, in such drear hermitage, as seem'd Most like a tomb, gleaning from roots and herbs Scant nutriment. Fierce passions, brooding dark In solitude and abstinence, had made A hater of mankind. But when he heard Of the white stranger, with his creed of love Seducing red men's hearts, hot seeds of wrath Smoulder'd within his bosom,—like a fire