Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/54

54 And pluck'd them from the Spoiler's threatening grasp, Or when the roses from their pilgrimage Were shorn, walk'd humbly with them 'neath the cloud Of God's displeasure. Such remembrances Rush o'er their spirits with a whelming tide, Till in the heart's deep casket, tribute tears Lie thick, like pearls. And doubt not there are those 'Mid this assembly, in the scanty robes Of penury half wrapt, who well might tell Of ministrations at their couch of woe, Of toil-spent nights, and timely charities, Uncounted, save in heaven. 'Tis well!—'Tis well! The parted benefactor justly claims Such obsequies. Yet let the Gospel breathe Its strain sublime. A hallow'd hand hath cull'd From the deep melodies of David's lyre, And from the burning eloquence of Paul, Balm for the mourner's wound. But there's a group Within whose sacred home, yon lifeless form Had been the centre of each tender hope, The soul of every joy. Affections pure And patriarchal hospitality, Like household deities, presiding spread Their wings around, making the favor'd cell As bright a transcript of lost Eden's bliss, As beams below. Now round that shaded hearth The polish'd brow of radiant beauty droops, Like the pale lilly-flower, by pitiless storms Press'd and surcharg'd. There too are sadden'd eyes More eloquent than words, and bursting hearts; Earth may not weigh such grief. 'Tis heal'd in Heaven.