Zinzendorff and Other Poems/"Go thy way for this time when I have a convenient season, I will call for thee"
"Go thy way for this time, when I have a convenient season, I will call for thee."—Acts.
Alone he sat, and wept.—That very night
The ambassador of God, with earnest zeal
Of eloquence had warn'd him to repent,—
And like the Roman at Drusilla's side
Hearing the truth, he trembled.—Conscience wrought,
And sin allur'd. The struggle shook him sore.
The dim lamp wan'd, the hour of midnight toll'd;
Prayer sought for entrance,—but the heart had clos'd
Its diamond valve. He threw him on his couch,
And bade the spirit of his God depart.
—But there was war within him, and he sigh'd
"Depart not utterly, thou Blessed One!
Return when youth is past, and make my soul
Forever thine." With kindling brow he trod
The haunts of pleasure, while the viol's voice
And Beauty's smile his fluttering pulses woke.
To Love he knelt, and on his brow she hung
Her freshest myrtle-wreath. For gold he sought,
And winged Wealth indulg'd him,—till the world
Pronounc'd him happy. Manhood's vigorous prime
Swell'd to its climax, and his busy days
And restless nights swept like a tide away.
When lo!—a message from the Crucified,
"Look unto me, and live." But Care had struck
Deep root around him,—and its countless shoots
Still striking earthward like the Indian tree
Barr'd out, with woven shades, the eye of Heaven.
—Twice warn'd, he ponder'd:—then impatient spake
Of weariness, and haste, and want of time,
And duty to his children, and besought
A longer space to do the work of Heaven.
—God spake again, when Age had shed its snows
Upon his temples, and his weary hand
Shrank from gold-gathering. But the rigid chain
Of Habit bound him, and he still implor'd
A more convenient season.
"See,—my step
Is firm and free, my unquench'd eye delights
To view this pleasant world,—and life with me
May last for many years. In the calm hour
Of lingering sickness, I can better fit
For long Eternity."
—Disease came on,
And Reason fled. The maniac strove with Death,
And grappled like a fiend, with shrieks and cries,
Till darkness smote his eye-balls and thick ice
Settled around his heart-strings. The poor clay
Lay vanquish'd and distorted. But the soul,
The soul whose promised season never came
To hearken to its Maker's will, had gone
To weigh His sufferance with its own abuse
And bide the audit.