Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/273

Rh And yet to heed them not? The sorrowing sire, Doth mark the last, faint ripple, where his child Sank down into the waters. Busy thought Turns to his far home, and those little ones, Whom sporting 'mid their favorite lawn he left, And troubled fancy shows the weeping there, When he shall seat them once more on his knee, And tell them how the baby that they lov'd, Hid its pale cheek within its mother's breast, And pin'd away and died,—yet found no grave Beneath the church-yard turf, where they might plant The lowly mound with flowers. What lifts the heart Up from its bitter sadness? Hark! His voice That o'er the thundering wave, doth pour sublime Such words, as arch the darkest storm of life With faith's perennial bow. Thou, who dost speak Of His eternal majesty, who bids Both earth and sea to render up their dead, Know'st thou how soon thy tomb shall drink the tears Of mourning kindred? Thou, who thus dost stand Serene in youthful beauty, to yield back What God hath claim'd,—know'st thou how full the tide Of sympathy, that now thy bosom thrills For strangers, in thine own paternal halls Shall flow for thee? And if thou could'st, the flush Would not have faded on thy glowing cheek, For thou had'st made the countenance of death Familiar as a friend, through Him who pluck'd The terror from his frown, and from his sting