Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/44

44 Bad'st thou yon breathing statue strive
 * Her faultless form to show?

But rushing on in reckless mirth,
 * That empire answered,—No.

Then lo!—a still small voice arose
 * Amid that silence drear,

Such voice as from the cradle bed
 * Doth charm the mother's ear,

And then, methought, two clasping hands
 * Were from that marble thrust,

And strange their living freshness gleam'd
 * Amid that sculptur'd dust.

Empress! the filial blossoms nurs'd
 * Within thy bosom's fold,

Surviv'd the wreath that traitor Love
 * To heartless glory sold,—

Those hands thy monument have rear'd
 * Where pausing pilgrims come;

That voice thy mournful requiem pour'd
 * Though all the world was dumb.