Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/273

And yet to heed them not? The sorrowing sire,
Doth mark the last, faint ripple, where his child
Sank down into the waters. Busy thought
Turns to his far home, and those little ones,
Whom sporting 'mid their favorite lawn he left,
And troubled fancy shows the weeping there,
When he shall seat them once more on his knee,
And tell them how the baby that they lov'd,
Hid its pale cheek within its mother's breast,
And pin'd away and died,—yet found no grave
Beneath the church-yard turf, where they might plant
The lowly mound with flowers.
                               What lifts the heart
Up from its bitter sadness? Hark! His voice
That o'er the thundering wave, doth pour sublime
Such words, as arch the darkest storm of life
With faith's perennial bow.
                                  Thou, who dost speak
Of His eternal majesty, who bids
Both earth and sea to render up their dead,
Know'st thou how soon thy tomb shall drink the tears
Of mourning kindred? Thou, who thus dost stand
Serene in youthful beauty, to yield back
What God hath claim'd,—know'st thou how full the tide
Of sympathy, that now thy bosom thrills
For strangers, in thine own paternal halls
Shall flow for thee?
                            And if thou could'st, the flush
Would not have faded on thy glowing cheek,
For thou had'st made the countenance of death
Familiar as a friend, through Him who pluck'd
The terror from his frown, and from his sting