Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/125

                                  Say, what heathen lip
In its strange accent told him, that on earth
Nought now remain'd to heal his wounded heart,
Save that lone famish'd infant? Days of care
Were meted to him, and long nights of grief
Weigh'd out, and then that little, wailing one
Went to her mother's bosom, and slept sweet
'Neath the cool branches of the Hopia-tree.
'Twas bitterness to think that bird-like voice,
Which sang sweet hymns to please a father's ear,
Must breath no more.
                                   This is to be alone!
Alone in this wide world.
                                          Yet not without
A comforter. For the true heart that trusts
Its all to Heaven, and sees its treasur'd things
Unfold their hidden wing, and thither soar,
Doth find itself drawn upward in their flight,
And poising higher o'er this vale of tears,
And gathering bright revealings of its home,
Doth from its sorrows weave a robe of praise.