Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/121

The Pastor and his listening throng,
With Christian hope and love supplied
The gifts that rigorous Earth denied.
And from the classic clime, behold!
The cloud of Moslem wrath had roll'd
Yet no proud lay of Attic lore
Nor bacchanal with maddening roar
        Peal'd from that sunny coast,
But infant voices lisping came
Of knowledge, and a Saviour's name,
Winning for Greece a higher fame
        Than heathen annals boast.
Thou too, Oh Afric! undismay'd,
Reclining 'neath thy palm-trees shade,
Dost mark with rapture's thrilling tide,
Enfranchis'd thousands seek thy side,
With filial hand thy tears to dry
And found an empire for the sky.
—Sad Zion! doth thy footstep stray
Far from thy temple-shrine away?
Sweet is the breath of Sharon's rose,
In limpid silver Siloah flows,
And Hermon woos the scented air,
Where art thou, blinded exile! where?
Return, thou homeless and opprest,
And 'neath Messiah's sceptre rest.
On waken'd India's sultry shore,
The Suttee's flame aspires no more,
And idol-ear, and thundering gong
And haughty priest, and pagan throng
Recede, as darkness fades away
Before the morning's golden ray.