Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/222

That in the feebleness of four score years,
Thou, with unshrinking hand dost pitch thy tent
Near the rude billows of the Michigan,
And mark in that far land, young life start forth
In vigor and in beauty and in power,
Where erst the Indian and the panther dwelt,
Sole lords? It was a bold emprise to change
The robe of science and of minstrelsy,
Worn from thy cradle onward, for the staff
Of the rough emigrant.
                                     Again I look'd,
His lamp had faded, and the learned page
Was clos'd within his study. The blest book
Of God's great love to man, was open still:
Where was the eye that ponder'd it? the heart
That priz'd it more than Greek or Roman lore?
—There was a shroud, a pall, a tender sigh
Of Woman's grief, and 'neath the broken sods
Of that New World, the patriarch poet lies,
"And 'dust to dust' concludes our noblest song."
—Master and friend! until this feeble lyre
In silence moulders, till my heart forget
The thrill of gratitude, the love of song,
The praise of virtue, shall thine image dwell
Bright with the beauty of benignant age
In my soul's temple-shrine.