Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/287

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And when the fiercer storms of fate Do o'er the pilgrim sweep, And earthquake-voices claim the hopes He treasur'd long and deep, When loud the threatening passions roar Like lions in their den And vengeful tempests lash the shore, What maketh music then?

The deed to humble virtue born, Which nursing memory taught To shun a boastful world's applause, And love the lowly thought, This builds a cell within the heart, Amid the weeds of care, And tuning high its heaven-struck harp, Doth make sweet music there.

 

not the sinner, though her name May dregs of deep abhorrence stir, And though the kindling blush of shame Burns on young Virtue's cheek for her.

Judge not, unless thy lip can tell What wily tempters, fierce and strong Did the unguarded soul propel To ruin's hidden gulf along. 