Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/238

                                                     Then thou cam'st,
Ethereal spirit! on thy classic wing,
Bidding me follow thee.
                                       And so I sought
The ruined cities of Italia's plain,
And with thee o'er Pompeii's ashes trod,
Courting the friendship of a buried world.
     'Tis fearful to behold the tide of life
In all the tossings of its fervid strength
Thus petrified, and every painted bark
That spread its gay sail o'er the rippling surge
Sealed to its depths.
                               Thou haggard skeleton,
Clutching with bony hand thy hoarded gold,
What boots it thus those massy keys to guard
When life's frail key turns in its ward no more?
    Say! hadst thou naught amidst yon wreck, more dear
Than that encumbering dross? no priceless wealth
Of sweet affinity, no tender claim,
No eager turning of fond eyes to thine,
In that last hour of dread extremity?
    Lo! yon grim soldier, faithful at his post,
Bold and unblenching, though a sea of fire
Closed o'er him, with its suffocating wave.
The reeking air grew hot, the blackened heavens
Shrank like a shriveled scroll, and mother earth,
Forgetful of her love, a traitress turned.
Yet still he fled not; though each element
Swerved from the eternal law, he firmly stood,
A Roman Sentinel.
                              Thus may we stand
In duty's armor, at our hour of doom,