Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/80

80  Brief was the thought, the dream, the pang, For high Devotion came, And brought the martyr's speechless joy, And wing'd the prayer of flame, And stamp'd upon the marble face Heaven's smile serenely sweet, And bade the icy, quivering lip The praise of God repeat.

Strange, olive brows with tears were wet, As a lone grave was made, And there, mid Asia's arid sands Salvation's herald laid, But bright that shroudless clay shall burst From its uncoffin'd bed, When the Archangel's awful trump Convenes the righteous dead.

 

do ye tear Yon lingering tenant from his humble home? His children cling about him, and his wife Regardless of the wintery storm, doth stand Watching his last, far footsteps with a gaze Of speechless misery. What is his crime? The murderer's steel in headlong passion rais'd? Or the red flame, in stealthy malice touch'd To some unguarded roof? Ah no, ye say His crime is poverty. Disease, perchance, Hath paralyzed his arm, or adverse skies 