Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/38

I see a consecrated throng, of youthful watchmen rise,
Each girding on for Zion's sake, their heaven-wrought panoplies,
These, in their solitudes obscure, thy generous ardor sought,
And gathering with a tireless hand, up to the temple brought
These, while the altar of their God, they serve with hallow'd zeal,
Shall wear thy memory on their heart, an everlasting seal.

I hear a voice of wailing from the islands of the sea,
Salvation's distant heralds mourn on heathen shores for thee,
Thy constant love, like Gilead's balm, refresh'd their weary mind,
And with the bless'd Evart's name thine own was strongly twin'd,
But thou, from this illusive scene, hast like a vision fled,
Just wrapp'd his mantle o'er thy breast, then join'd him with the dead.

Farewell! we yield thee to the tomb, with many a bitter tear,
Tho' 'twas not meet a soul like thine should longer tarry here,
Fond, clustering hopes have sunk with thee, that earth can ne'er restore.
Love casts a garland on thy turf, that may not blossom more,
But thou art where the dream of hope doth in fruition fade,
And Love, immortal and refin'd, glow on without a shade.