Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/54

And pluck'd them from the Spoiler's threatening grasp,
Or when the roses from their pilgrimage
Were shorn, walk'd humbly with them 'neath the cloud
Of God's displeasure. Such remembrances
Rush o'er their spirits with a whelming tide,
Till in the heart's deep casket, tribute tears
Lie thick, like pearls. And doubt not there are those
'Mid this assembly, in the scanty robes
Of penury half wrapt, who well might tell
Of ministrations at their couch of woe,
Of toil-spent nights, and timely charities,
Uncounted, save in heaven.
'Tis well!—'Tis well!
The parted benefactor justly claims
Such obsequies. Yet let the Gospel breathe
Its strain sublime. A hallow'd hand hath cull'd
From the deep melodies of David's lyre,
And from the burning eloquence of Paul,
Balm for the mourner's wound. But there's a group
Within whose sacred home, yon lifeless form
Had been the centre of each tender hope,
The soul of every joy. Affections pure
And patriarchal hospitality,
Like household deities, presiding spread
Their wings around, making the favor'd cell
As bright a transcript of lost Eden's bliss,
As beams below. Now round that shaded hearth
The polish'd brow of radiant beauty droops,
Like the pale lilly-flower, by pitiless storms
Press'd and surcharg'd. There too are sadden'd eyes
More eloquent than words, and bursting hearts;
Earth may not weigh such grief. 'Tis heal'd in Heaven.