 | Zinzendorff, and other poems |  |
BURIAL OF ASHMUN, AT NEW-HAVEN, AUG. 1828.
Whence is yon sable bier?
Why move the throng so slow?
Why doth that lonely mother's tear
In bursting anguish flow?
Why is the sleeper laid
To rest in manhood's pride?
How gain'd his cheek such pallid shade?
I ask'd, but none replied.
Why move the throng so slow?
Why doth that lonely mother's tear
In bursting anguish flow?
Why is the sleeper laid
To rest in manhood's pride?
How gain'd his cheek such pallid shade?
I ask'd, but none replied.
Then spake the hoarse wave low,
The vexing billow sigh'd,
And blended sounds of bitter woe
Came o'er the echoing tide,
I heard sad Afric mourn
Upon her sultry strand,
A buckler from her bosom torn,
An anchor from her hand.
The vexing billow sigh'd,
And blended sounds of bitter woe
Came o'er the echoing tide,
289
Upon her sultry strand,
A buckler from her bosom torn,
An anchor from her hand.
Beneath her palm-trees' shade,
At every cabin-door,
There rose a weeping for the friend
Who must return no more,
Her champion when the blast
Of ruthless war swept by,
Her guardian, when the storm was past,
Her guide to worlds on high.
At every cabin-door,
There rose a weeping for the friend
Who must return no more,
Her champion when the blast
Of ruthless war swept by,
Her guardian, when the storm was past,
Her guide to worlds on high.
Rest! wearied form of clay!
Frail, ruin'd temple, rest!
Thou could'st not longer bear the sway
Of an immortal guest,
Where nigh, yon classic dome,
Uprears its ancient head,
We give thee welcome to a home,
Amid our noblest dead.
Frail, ruin'd temple, rest!
Thou could'st not longer bear the sway
Of an immortal guest,
Where nigh, yon classic dome,
Uprears its ancient head,
We give thee welcome to a home,
Amid our noblest dead.
Spirit of Power, pass on!
Thy upward wing is free,
Earth may not claim thee for her son,
She hath no charm for thee,
Toil might not bow thee down,
Nor Sorrow check thy race,
Nor Pleasure steal thy birthright crown,
Go to thine own blest place.
Thy upward wing is free,
Earth may not claim thee for her son,
She hath no charm for thee,
Toil might not bow thee down,
Nor Sorrow check thy race,
Nor Pleasure steal thy birthright crown,
Go to thine own blest place.
| Zinzendorff, and other poems | |