Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/30

30 By misery furrow'd o'er, in strongest lines, Like some deep-trac'd phylactery, reveal'd Prophetic sentence of their fated race, Which unrelenting Destiny should waste, Till like the mighty Mastodon, it leave Nought save its bones among us. In the heart Of Zinzendorff, their murmur'd farewell tones Dwelt,—a perpetual cadence, prompting oft The interceding prayer. It duly rose Ere the bright morn sprang up from Ocean's bed, Or when amid his garniture of clouds Purple and gold, the gorgeous Sun retir'd Into his kingly chamber. Then a voice As of a father for an outcast son, O'er whom his pity yearns, blent with the sigh And surging thunder of the sleepless wave, Bearing the sorrows of the wandering tribes To Mercy's ear. Nor were their souls forgot By their kind shepherd, mid the joys of home, While 'neath his own 11 baronial shades, he sought To spread a banner o'er the sect he lov'd,— That peaceful sect, which like the man who lean'd On Jesus breast at supper, best imbib'd The spirit of his love. Hail! ye who went Untiring teachers to the heathen tribes, And kneeling with your barbarous pupils, shap'd Their rude articulations into prayer. Ye fear'd nor tropic suns, nor polar ice, Nor subterranean cell. Ye did not shrink