Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/28

And felt that every spot on earth's wide breast
Was home to him, for there his Father dwelt,
And all men were his brethren. On that hour
Of high devotion, had the Spoiler stole,
His step had been mistaken for the sound
Of the soft rustling of angelic wings;
And the soul's welcome to the stroke that rends
Its fond yet strange affinity with clay,
Had been sublime.
To the believer, Death
Is like the lion which the strong man slew,
And the sweet bees did with their waxen robe
And food ambrosial, cover.
He who found
This blest enthusiasm nerve his weary heart,
Like manna in the wilderness,—now toil'd
As a colonial sire, and thoughtful plann'd
'Mid shelter'd vallies, and aspiring hills,
Fit refuge for his brethren. Hence arose
Fair Bethlehem, ⁸ with all its pure retreats
And peaceful hearths; and still its classic dome,
Where Education with the plastic mind
Of childhood, mingleth holiest elements,
Doth venerate his name.
But now the hour
That took the shepherd from his simple flock
Drew swiftly on: for still the cherish'd form
Of her ⁹ whose cheek was pallid for his sake,
Blent with his every dream,—and thoughts of home,
Sweet household music, long-remember'd tones,
The far-off echoes of his stately halls,
Had like the voice of many waters, been