Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/118

Of weariness, and haste, and want of time,
And duty to his children, and besought
A longer space to do the work of Heaven.
—God spake again, when Age had shed its snows
Upon his temples, and his weary hand
Shrank from gold-gathering. But the rigid chain
Of Habit bound him, and he still implor'd
A more convenient season.
                                             "See,—my step
Is firm and free, my unquench'd eye delights
To view this pleasant world,—and life with me
May last for many years. In the calm hour
Of lingering sickness, I can better fit
For long Eternity."
                               —Disease came on,
And Reason fled. The maniac strove with Death,
And grappled like a fiend, with shrieks and cries,
Till darkness smote his eye-balls and thick ice
Settled around his heart-strings. The poor clay
Lay vanquish'd and distorted. But the soul,
The soul whose promised season never came
To hearken to its Maker's will, had gone
To weigh His sufferance with its own abuse
And bide the audit.