Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/181

                             Answer me, young man,
Thou, who thro' chance and change of time hast trod
Thus far, when some with vengeful wrath have mark'd
Thy waywardness, or in thy time of woe
Deserted thee, or with a rainbow smile
Lur'd and forsook, or on thine errors scowl'd
With unforgiving memory,—did she?
Thy Mother?
                    Child! in whose rejoicing heart
The cradle-scene is fresh, the lulling hymn
Still clearly echoed, when the blight of age
Withereth that bosom, where thine head doth lay,
When pain shall paralyze the arm that clasps
Thy form so tenderly, wilt thou forget?
Wilt thou be weary, tho' long years should ask
The patient offices of love to gird
A broken mind?
                         Turn back the book of life
To its first page. What deep trace meets thee there?
Lines from a Mother's pencil. When her scroll
Of life is finish'd and the hand of Death
Stamps that strong seal, which none but God can break,
What should its last trace be?
                                                Thy bending form
In sleepless love, the dying couch beside,
Thy tender hand upon the closing eye,
Thy kiss upon the lips, thy prayer to Heaven,
The chasten'd rendering of thy filial trust,
Up to the white-wing'd angel ministry.