Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/53

Rh was a throng within the temple-gates, And more of sorrow on each thoughtful brow Than seemed to fit the sacred day of praise. Neighbor on neighbor gaz'd, and friend on friend, Yet few saluted; for the sense of loss Weigh'd heavy in each bosom. Even the dirge Breath'd tremulous—for holy music moan'd A smitten worshipper. Grave, aged men Bow'd down their reverend heads in wondering woe, That he who so retain'd the ardent smile And step elastic of life's morning prime, Should fall before them. Stricken at his side Were friendships of no common fervency Or brief endurance; for at his glad tone And the warm pressure of his hand, awoke Fond recollections, scenes of boyhood's bliss, And the unwounded trust of guileless years, Glassing themselves in each congenial breast. —The men of skill, who cope with stern disease, And wear Hygeia's mantle, offering still Fresh incense at her shrine, with sighs deplore A brother and a guide: while yon mute train, Whose speech is in the eye, pour forth their tears, As o'er a father lost. Say,—can ye tell How many now amid this gather'd throng In tender meditations deeply muse, Coupling his image with their gratitude? He had stood with them at the gate of Death,