Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Test of Life
THE TEST OF LIFE.
Death is the test of life.—All else is vain.
The adulation of a fickle crowd,
Victory's proud pomp, and Glory's pageant train
Fleet like the tinting of yon summer cloud.
This Cæsar felt, in that tremendous hour
When the dire dagger search'd his breast so well,
When all unsated still his lust of power
Upbraiding man's ingratitude,—he fell.
Go,—spread of him of Macedon the tale
To the dull bacchanalian's vacant eye,—
How he beneath whose frown the world grew pale,
Sank in the wine cup like, like a drowning fly.
For Sweden s madman, ask Pultowa's walls,
But pensive Memory in her treasure-cell,
The widow's wail and orphan's moan recalls
That lawless murderer's obsequies to swell.
How died Napoleon?—Ask Helena's rock,—
Ask the wild surge which with its hoariest crest
Was but a whisper to the earthquake shock
Of the vex'd passions warring in his breast.
And thus they died, whom blind and erring men
Like demi-gods have worshipp'd,—and their names
In liquid fire have flow'd from history's pen,
As baleful Etna o'er the concave flames.
Look to the friends of peace,—who never sought
The blood-stain'd laurel from its bed to tear,
But in stern toils, or bowers of studious thought
Still made the welfare of mankind their care.
See Howard, dauntless 'mid the dungeon-gloom,
Or latent poisons of a foreign sky,—
Hear Addison while sinking to the tomb,
Exclaim in hope, "Behold a Christian die!"
Thou too, blest Raikes,—philanthropist divine,—
Who all unconscious what thy hands had done,
Didst plant that germ whose glorious fruit shall shine
When from his throne doth fall yon darken'd sun,
The Sabbath-bell, the teacher's hallow'd lore,
The countless throng from childhood's snares set free,
Who in sweet strains the Sire of Heaven adore,
Shall point in solemn gratitude to thee.
Who was with Martyn when he breath'd his last,
A martyr pale on Asia's burning sod?
Who cheer'd his spirit as it onward past
From its frail house of clay?—The host of God.
Oh! ye who trust when earthly toils shall cease
To find a home in Heaven's unerring clime,
Drink deeper at the fountain-head of peace,
And cleanse your spirits for that world sublime.