Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/238

238 Then thou cam'st, Ethereal spirit! on thy classic wing, Bidding me follow thee. And so I sought The ruined cities of Italia's plain, And with thee o'er Pompeii's ashes trod, Courting the friendship of a buried world. 'Tis fearful to behold the tide of life In all the tossings of its fervid strength Thus petrified, and every painted bark That spread its gay sail o'er the rippling surge Sealed to its depths. Thou haggard skeleton, Clutching with bony hand thy hoarded gold, What boots it thus those massy keys to guard When life's frail key turns in its ward no more? Say! hadst thou naught amidst yon wreck, more dear Than that encumbering dross? no priceless wealth Of sweet affinity, no tender claim, No eager turning of fond eyes to thine, In that last hour of dread extremity? Lo! yon grim soldier, faithful at his post, Bold and unblenching, though a sea of fire Closed o'er him, with its suffocating wave. The reeking air grew hot, the blackened heavens Shrank like a shriveled scroll, and mother earth, Forgetful of her love, a traitress turned. Yet still he fled not; though each element Swerved from the eternal law, he firmly stood, A Roman Sentinel. Thus may we stand In duty's armor, at our hour of doom,