Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/294

Uprose the moon, the Queen of night
    Danc'd with the Protean tide,
And years fulfill'd their measur'd flight,
    And ripening ages died,
Slow centuries in oblivion's flood
    Sank like the tossing wave,
But changeless and transfix'd ye stood,
    The dead without a grave.

The infant wrought its flowery span
    On Love's maternal breast,
And whiten'd to a hoary man,
    And laid him down to rest,
Race after race, with weary moan
    Went to their dreamless sleep,
While ye, upon your feet of stone,
    Perpetual penance keep.

How little deem'd ye, when ye hurl'd
    Your challenge o'er the main,
And vow'd to teach a new-born world
    The vassalage of Spain,
Thus till the doom's-day cry of pain
    Shall rive your prison-rock,
To bear upon your brow like Cain,
    A mark that all might mock.

But long from high Castilian bowers
    Look'd forth the inmates fair,
And gave the tardy midnight hours
    To watching and despair,