Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/86

86  But they who Jordan's swelling tide No more are call'd to stem, Whose tears the hand of God hath dried, Why should we mourn for them?

 

—while her mute companions share Those joys which ne'er await the blind, A moral night of deep despair Descending, wraps her lonely mind.

Yet deem not, though so dark her path Heaven strew'd no comfort o'er her lot, Or in her bitter cup of wrath The healing drop of balm forgot.

No! still with unambitious mind The needle's patient task to ply, At the full board her place to find, Or close in sleep the placid eye,

With Order's unobtrusive charm Her simple wardrobe to dispose, To press of guiding care the arm, And rove where autumn's bounty flows,

With touch so exquisitely true That vision stands astonish'd by, To recognize with ardor due Some friend or benefactor nigh,— 