Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/58

58  Yet still it sigh'd, even when was spread
 * The waiting Angel's wing,

"Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
 * For 'tis a holy thing."

 

! the ancient darkness breaks
 * That o'er the nations lay,

And morn with purple banner wakes,
 * Bright herald of the day;

Hush'd are hoarse Sinai's thunders dread,
 * Descending Angels sing,

And crush'd Judea lifts the head,
 * To hail her promis'd king.

The harp of prophecy, so long
 * By sacred impulse fir'd,

Hath breath'd its last entrancing song,
 * And with the seer expired.

Symbol and type, whose linked chain
 * At Eden's bower began,

No more in dim and shadowy strain
 * Announce the truth to man.

Messiah comes! what throne of state
 * Shall win his glorious sway?

Throw wide Oh Earth! thy loftiest gate
 * To give the highest way:

