Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/219

That in its blessed ignorance wail'd not
A mother lost. Yet she who would have watch'd
Each germ of intellect, each bud of truth,
Each fair unfolding of the fruit of Heaven
With thrilling joy, was like the marble cold.
—There were the flowers she planted, blooming fair,
As if in mockery,—there the varied stores
That in the beauty of their order charm'd
At once the tasteful, and the studious hour,
Pictures, and tinted shells, and treasur'd tomes,
But the presiding mind, the cheerful voice,
The greeting glance, the spirit-stirring smile,
Are fled forever.
                            And he knoweth all!
Hath felt it all, deep in his tortur'd soul,
Till reason and philosophy did faint,
Beneath a grief like his. Whence hath he then
The power to comfort others, and to speak
Thus of the resurrection?
                                        He hath found
That hope, which is an anchor to the soul,
And with a martyr-courage holds him up
To bear the will of God.
                                       Say, ye who tempt
The sea of life, by summer-gales impell'd
Have ye this anchor? Sure, a time will come
For storms to try you, and strong blasts to rend
Your painted sails, and shred your gold like chaff
O'er the wild wave; and what a wreck is man
If sorrow find him unsustain'd by God.