Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/299

Rh Yea, thou didst find the link That joins mute Nature to ethereal mind, And make that link a melody. The couch Of thy last sleep, was in the native clime Of song and eloquence and ardent soul, Spot fitly chosen for thee. Perchance, that isle So lov'd of favoring skies, yet bann'd by fate, Might shadow forth thine own unspoken lot. For at thy heart, the ever-pointed thorn Did gird itself, until the life-stream ooz'd In gushes of such deep and thrilling song, That angels poising on some silver cloud Might linger 'mid the errands of the skies, And listen, all unblam'd.                                           How tenderly Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest, And like a nurse, with finger on her lip, Watch lest some step disturb thee, striving still From other touch, thy sacred harp to guard. Waits she thy waking, as the Mother waits For some pale babe, whose spirit sleep hath stolen And laid it dreaming on the lap of Heaven? We say not thou art dead. We dare not. No. For every mountain stream and shadowy dell Where thy rich harpings linger, would hurl back The falsehood on our souls. Thou spak'st alike The simple language of the freckled flower, And of the glorious stars. God taught it thee. And from thy living intercourse with man Thou shalt not pass away, until this earth Drops her last gem into the doom's-day flame.