Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/155

And youthful forms, with gaze intensely fix'd
On their beloved Pastor, as he taught
Of Christ their righteousness, while here and there
A group of mourning mothers from whose arms
Their babes by persecution's rage were torn
Blent with their listening, the low sob of grief.
Close by their fathers' knees, young children cower'd,
And in each echoing footstep fear'd a foe.
—It was a time of trouble, and the flock
Came hungering for that heavenly bread which gives
Strength to the heavy-laden. 'Twas a scene
That France might well have wept with tears of blood
But in the madness of a dire disease
She slew her faithful sons, and urg'd the sword
'Gainst her own vitals.
                                 Lo! the dawn is out,
With her grey banner, and the parting flock
Seek their own homes, praising the Hand that spares
Their faithful Shepherd. Silent evening wakes
Far different orgies. Yonder mangled form
Sinking 'neath murderous fury, can ye trace
Its lineaments of beauty, 'mid the wreck
Of anguish and distortion? Son of God!
Is this thy messenger, whose voice so late
Thrill'd with an angel's sweetness, as it pour'd
Thy blessing on the people?
                                           Yet, be still,
And breathe no bitter thought above his dust,
Who served the Prince of Peace. The spirit of love
Did make that lifeless breast its temple-shrine,
Offend it not. But raise with tender hand
Those blood-stain'd curls, and shed the pitying tear.