Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/258

258 And the midnight lamp, with its flickering light, Half screen'd from the restless sufferer's sight, Yes, many a sable scene of woe, Doth that muffled knocker's tablet show.

Pain! Pain! art thou wrestling here with man; For the broken gold of his wasted span, Art thou straining thy rack on his tortur'd nerve, Till his firmest hopes from their anchor swerve? Till burning tears from his eyeballs flow, And his manhood faints in a shriek of woe? Methinks, thy scorpion-sting I trace, Through the mist of that sullen knocker's face.

Death! Death! do I see thee with weapon dread? Art thou laying thy hand on yon cradle-bed! The Mother is there, with her sleepless eye, To dispute each step of thy victory, She doth fold the child in her soul's embrace, Her prayer is to die in her idol's place, She hath bared her breast to thine arrow's sway, But thou wilt not be brib'd from that babe away.

Earth! Earth! thou hast stamp'd on thy scroll of bliss, The faithless seal of a traitor's kiss, Where the bridal lamp shone clear and bright, And the foot thro' the maze of the dance was light, Thou biddest the black-rob'd weeper kneel, And the heavy hearse roll its lumbering wheel; And still to the heart that will heed its lore, Doth Wisdom speak, from the muffled door.