 | Zinzendorff, and other poems |  |
THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND, AMONG THE RUINS OF IONA.
Where old Iona's ruins spread
In shapeless fragments round,
And where the crown'd and mighty dead
Repose in cells profound,
Where o'er Columba's buried towers
The shrouding ivy steals,
And moans the owl from cloister'd bowers
A holy Teacher kneels.
In shapeless fragments round,
And where the crown'd and mighty dead
Repose in cells profound,
Where o'er Columba's buried towers
The shrouding ivy steals,
And moans the owl from cloister'd bowers
A holy Teacher kneels.
175
Rocks spring terrific to the sky,
Rude seas in madness storm,
And grimly frowns on Fancy's eye
The Druid's awful form,
With mutter'd curse and reeking blade,
And visage stern with ire,
Yet 'mid that darkly blended shade
Still bends the stranger sire.
Rude seas in madness storm,
And grimly frowns on Fancy's eye
The Druid's awful form,
With mutter'd curse and reeking blade,
And visage stern with ire,
Yet 'mid that darkly blended shade
Still bends the stranger sire.
He prays,—the father for his child,
The distant and the dear,
And when you abbey o'er the wild
Upraised its arches drear,
When at high mass, or vesper-strain
Rich voices fill'd the air,
From all that cowl'd and mitred train
Rose there a purer prayer?
The distant and the dear,
And when you abbey o'er the wild
Upraised its arches drear,
When at high mass, or vesper-strain
Rich voices fill'd the air,
From all that cowl'd and mitred train
Rose there a purer prayer?
His name is on a simple scroll
With holy ardor penn'd,
Which thrilling warns the sinner's soul
To make his God a friend,
But when the strong archangel's breath
Yon ancient vaults shall rend,
And starting from the dust of death
These waken'd throngs ascend.
With holy ardor penn'd,
Which thrilling warns the sinner's soul
To make his God a friend,
But when the strong archangel's breath
Yon ancient vaults shall rend,
And starting from the dust of death
These waken'd throngs ascend.
Meek saint! The boldest of the bold,
That sword or falchion drew,
Barons whose feudal glance control'd
Vassal and monarch too.
Proud heroes of the tented field,
Kings of a vaunted line,
May wish their blood-bought fame to yield
For honors won like thine.
That sword or falchion drew,
Barons whose feudal glance control'd
Vassal and monarch too.
176
Kings of a vaunted line,
May wish their blood-bought fame to yield
For honors won like thine.
| Zinzendorff, and other poems | |