Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/289

I heard sad Afric mourn
    Upon her sultry strand,
A buckler from her bosom torn,
    An anchor from her hand.

Beneath her palm-trees' shade,
    At every cabin-door,
There rose a weeping for the friend
    Who must return no more,
Her champion when the blast
    Of ruthless war swept by,
Her guardian, when the storm was past,
    Her guide to worlds on high.

Rest! wearied form of clay!
    Frail, ruin'd temple, rest!
Thou could'st not longer bear the sway
    Of an immortal guest,
Where high, yon classic dome,
    Uprears its ancient head,
We give thee welcome to a home,
    Amid our noblest dead.

Spirit of Power, pass on!
    Thy upward wing is free,
Earth may not claim thee for her son,
    She hath no charm for thee,
Toil might not bow thee down,
    Nor Sorrow check thy race,
Nor Pleasure steal thy birthright crown,
    Go to thine own blest place.