 | Zinzendorff, and other poems |  |
ON READING THE “REMAINS” OF REV. EDMUND D. GRIFFIN.
Son of Wyoming's classic vale,
By early Genius strongly mov'd,
Whom lofty science bow'd to hail,
And virtue from the cradle lov'd,
Thou of high soul, and radiant brow
Of manly beauty, where art thou?
By early Genius strongly mov'd,
Whom lofty science bow'd to hail,
And virtue from the cradle lov'd,
Thou of high soul, and radiant brow
Of manly beauty, where art thou?
Not near a mother's cherish'd side,
Not by a sister's love carest,
Nor listening to the parent-guide,
Nor in fraternal converse blest,
Still doth thy home the vestments wear
Of Eden,—but thou art not there.
Not by a sister's love carest,
Nor listening to the parent-guide,
Nor in fraternal converse blest,
Still doth thy home the vestments wear
Of Eden,—but thou art not there.
280
Not at Mount Cenis' stormy base,
Where crags on crags stupendous hurl'd,
And tower-crown'd cliffs portentous trace
The ruins of an elder world,
Where keenly gaz'd thy charmed eye
On Nature's cloud-wreath'd majesty.
Where crags on crags stupendous hurl'd,
And tower-crown'd cliffs portentous trace
The ruins of an elder world,
Where keenly gaz'd thy charmed eye
On Nature's cloud-wreath'd majesty.
Not at her feet,—that Queen of Earth,
Who left unsceptred and alone,
By mighty shades of warrior-birth,
Half slumbering on her seven-hill'd throne,
Still proudly takes, with palsied hand,
The homage of each pilgrim-land.
Who left unsceptred and alone,
By mighty shades of warrior-birth,
Half slumbering on her seven-hill'd throne,
Still proudly takes, with palsied hand,
The homage of each pilgrim-land.
Not where thou best didst love to stand,
A herald for thy Saviour's name,
Dispensing to a listening band
High words of eloquence and flame,
Such as do burst from lip to soul,
Touch'd by the “altar's living coal.”
A herald for thy Saviour's name,
Dispensing to a listening band
High words of eloquence and flame,
Such as do burst from lip to soul,
Touch'd by the “altar's living coal.”
Yet, what are all the classic springs
That murmur thro' their ancient grove,
Or all the pomp that Nature brings
To wake the young enthusiast's love,
Or fond Affection's strongest tie,
Weigh'd with their bliss in Christ who die?
That murmur thro' their ancient grove,
Or all the pomp that Nature brings
To wake the young enthusiast's love,
Or fond Affection's strongest tie,
Weigh'd with their bliss in Christ who die?
| Zinzendorff, and other poems | |