Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/84

84  As a fond Mother's evening kiss
 * Doth lull her weary child,

Kind Nature pour'd a smile of bliss
 * Around the landscape mild,

But though in love to all she spoke, Though her soft tones in music broke,
 * Like balm her breezes stole,

Yet nothing seem'd of joy to tell So pure, as in that lowly cell
 * The Sabbath of the Soul.

 

said that hearts have albums. On their page Strong Memory writeth with a diamond pen, And Hope and Fancy throw their pencil tints, And Love his bright creations. It were rash To trust such tablet to the careless hand, For Vanity's inscription. Blot or stain Were fearful there, since pausing Penitence Must with her bitter waters cleanse it out. —The deep impressions on those mystic leaves Possess mysterious power. Back they recall From time's dim sepulchre lost Friendship's smile, Bid Grief's long-slumbering tides suffuse the eye Or wake the cold pulse to the thrill of joy. —Guard thy heart's Album. Of its slightest trace Who knoweth the full import? It may help To fashion motive, and to color fate; Nor canst thou tell how strong a thread it weaves 