 | Zinzendorff, and other poems |  |
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VÆ VOBIS.
“Væ Vobis,” ye whose lip doth lave
So deeply in the sparkling wine,
Regardless though that passion-wave
Shut from the soul, Heaven's light divine,
“Væ Vobis,”—heed the trumpet-blast,
Fly!—ere the leprous taint is deep,
Fly!—ere the hour of hope be past,
And pitying angels cease to weep.
So deeply in the sparkling wine,
Regardless though that passion-wave
Shut from the soul, Heaven's light divine,
“Væ Vobis,”—heed the trumpet-blast,
Fly!—ere the leprous taint is deep,
Fly!—ere the hour of hope be past,
And pitying angels cease to weep.
“Væ Vobis,”—ye who fail to read
The name that shines where'er ye tread,
The Alpha of our infant creed,
The Omega of the sainted dead:
It glows where'er the pencil'd flowers
Their tablet to the desert show,
Where'er the mountain's rocky towers
Frown darkly o'er the vale below:
The name that shines where'er ye tread,
The Alpha of our infant creed,
The Omega of the sainted dead:
It glows where'er the pencil'd flowers
Their tablet to the desert show,
Where'er the mountain's rocky towers
Frown darkly o'er the vale below:
Where roll the wondrous orbs on high,
In glorious order, strong and fair,
In every letter of the sky
That midnight writes,—'tis there! 'tis there!
'Tis grav'd on ocean's wrinkled brow,
And on the shell that gems its shore,
And where the solemn forests bow,
“Væ Vobis,” ye, who scorn the lore.
In glorious order, strong and fair,
In every letter of the sky
That midnight writes,—'tis there! 'tis there!
'Tis grav'd on ocean's wrinkled brow,
And on the shell that gems its shore,
And where the solemn forests bow,
“Væ Vobis,” ye, who scorn the lore.
“Væ Vobis” all who trust in earth,
Who lean on reeds that pierce the breast,
Who toss the bubble-cup of mirth,
Or grasp ambition's storm-wreath'd crest
Who early rise, and late take rest,
In Mammon's mine, the care-worn slave,
Who find each phantom-race unblest,
Yet shrink reluctant from the grave.
Who lean on reeds that pierce the breast,
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Or grasp ambition's storm-wreath'd crest
Who early rise, and late take rest,
In Mammon's mine, the care-worn slave,
Who find each phantom-race unblest,
Yet shrink reluctant from the grave.
| Zinzendorff, and other poems | |