Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/226

Oft see the envied prize, like waxen toy
Melt in the passion-struggle.
                                              He, who toils
Till lonely midnight, o'er the waning lamp,
Twining the cobweb of poetic thought,
Or forging links from Learning's molten gold,
Till his brain dazzles, and his eye turns dim,
Then spreads his gatherings with a proud delight
To the cold bosom'd public, oft perceives
Each to his "farm and merchandise," return
Regardless of his wisdom, or perchance
Doth hear the hammer of harsh criticism,
Grinding his ore to powder, finer far
Than the light sand of Congo's yellow stream.
—Yea, 'mid earth's passing pilgrims, many a one
Of its new-gain'd possessions, fondly proud,
Doth like the Patriarch, find his seven years' toil
Paid with a poor deceit.
                                      Crush'd Vase, farewell.
I thank thee for thy lesson. Thou hast warn'd
That the heart's treasures be not rashly risk'd
In earthen vessels, but in caskets stor'd,
Above the wrecking ministry of Time.