Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/233

And multiplied by countless miseries.
Beside some happy hearth, where fire-side joys
And renovated health, and heaven-born hope
Swell high in contrast with the maniac's cell,
Thou art remembered by some grateful heart,
With the deep rapture of that lunatic,
Whom Jesus healed.
                                But there's a wail for thee
From throngs whom this unpitying world doth cast
Out of her company, the scorned, the banned,
The excommunicate. Thou wert their friend—
Thy wasting midnight vigil was for them:
The toil, the watching, and the stifled pang
That stamped thee as a martyr, were for them.
They could not thank thee, save with that strange shriek
Which wounds the gentle ear. Yet thou didst walk
In thy high ministry of love and power,
As a magician 'mid their spectre-foes
And burning visions. Thou didst mark sublime
Death's angel sweeping o'er thy studious page,
And, at his chill monition, laying down
The boasted treasures of philosophy
Didst clothe thyself in meekness, as a child
Waiting the father's will.
                                        And so farewell,
Thou full of love to all whom God hath made,
Thou tuned to melody, go home! go home!
Where music hath no dissonance, and Love
Doth poise forever on her perfect wing.