Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/261

        Her lingering footstep stays
        Upon that threshold stone,
    And o'er the pictur'd wall, her farewell gaze
        Rests on the portraits one by one,
        Of treasur'd friends, before her gone,
To that bright world of bliss, where partings are unknown.

            The wintry snows
        That fourscore years disclose,
When slow to life's last verge, Time's lonely chariot goes,
    Are on her temples and her features meek
        Subdued and silent sorrow speak,
    Yet still her arm in cheerful trust doth lean
On faithful friendship's prop,—that changeless evergreen.

        Like Eve, from Paradise, she goes,
        Yet not by guilt involv'd in woes,
            Nor driven by angel bands,
    The flaming sword is planted at her gate,
            By menial hands:
    Yes, those who at her table freely fed,
    Despise the giver of their daily bread,
        And from ingratitude and hate
            The wounded patron fled.

        Think not the pang was slight,
    That thus within her uncomplaining breast
            She cover'd from the light:
    Though Knowledge o'er her mind had pour'd,
            The full, imperishable hoard,
    Tho' Virtue, such as dwells among the blest,
Came nightly, on Reflection's wing to sooth her soul to rest,