Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/61

Is held more sacred, more sublime,
For every gather'd tint of time;
So we, with pride, thy crown survey'd,
And drew the stranger to thy shade.

Fain had we brought our babes to thee,
And bow'd them at thy patriarch-knee,
Thy blessing on their heads to crave,
But thou art resting in thy grave,
Yes,—thou art safe from storms, and we,
Still ride upon a boisterous sea.

Come,—to yon consecrated ground,
Where in each nook and hillock round,
Some bleeding heart its gold hath sow'd,—
And rest thee on this hallow'd mound
Where many a tear hath flow'd.
Cold o'er its snows the moon-beams shine,—
Rever'd Cornelius! is it thine?
Oh! smitten in thy glory's prime,
From polar zone to tropic clime,
Thy name is where the heathen sees
Salvation's banner on the breeze,
And mingles with their grieving prayer
Who speak a Saviour's message there.

The wandering red man hears its tone,
And starts amid the forest lone,
Or from his home's poor refuge driven,
An outcast 'neath the face of Heaven,
Turns hopeless toward the western Sea,
And as he weeps, remembers thee.
Oh forest brethren! long distrest,