Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of the Rev. Dr. Cornelius
DEATH OF THE REV. DR. CORNELIUS.
"All ye that were about him, bemoan him, and all ye that know his name, say, how is the strong staff broken,—and the beautiful rod?"—Jer. xlviii, 17.
And can it be,—and can it be, that thou art on thy bier?
But yesterday, in all the prime of life's unspent career!
I've seen the forest's noblest tree laid low, when lightnings shine,
The column in its majesty torn from the temple-shrine,
Yet little deem'd that ice so soon would check thy vital stream,
The Sun that soar'd without a cloud, thus veil its noon-day beam.
I've seen thee in thy glory stand, while all around was hush'd,
And seraph-wisdom from thy lips, in tones of music gush'd,
For thou, with willing hand didst lay at morning's dewy hour,
Down at the feet of Him, who gave thy beauty and thy power,
Thou, for the helpless sons of woe, didst plead with words of flame,
And boldly strike the rocky heart, in thy Redeemer's name.
And lo! that withering race who fade as dew 'neath summer's ray,
Who like the uprooted weed are cast from their own earth away,
Who trusted to a nation's vow, yet found that faith was vain,
And to their fathers' sepulchres return no more again;
They need thy blended eloquence of lip, and eye, and brow,
They need the righteous for a shield, why art thou absent now?
Long shall thine image freshly dwell beside their native streams,
And 'mid their wanderings far and wide, illume their alien dreams,
For Heaven to their sequester'd haunts thine early steps did guide,
And the Cherokee hath bless'd thy brow, his cabin-hearth beside,
The Osage orphan sadly breath'd her sorrows to thine ear,
And the lofty warrior knelt him down with strange, repentant tear.
I see a consecrated throng, of youthful watchmen rise,
Each girding on for Zion's sake, their heaven-wrought panoplies,
These, in their solitudes obscure, thy generous ardor sought,
And gathering with a tireless hand, up to the temple brought
These, while the altar of their God, they serve with hallow'd zeal,
Shall wear thy memory on their heart, an everlasting seal.
I hear a voice of wailing from the islands of the sea,
Salvation's distant heralds mourn on heathen shores for thee,
Thy constant love, like Gilead's balm, refresh'd their weary mind,
And with the bless'd Evart's name thine own was strongly twin'd,
But thou, from this illusive scene, hast like a vision fled,
Just wrapp'd his mantle o'er thy breast, then join'd him with the dead.
Farewell! we yield thee to the tomb, with many a bitter tear,
Tho' 'twas not meet a soul like thine should longer tarry here,
Fond, clustering hopes have sunk with thee, that earth can ne'er restore.
Love casts a garland on thy turf, that may not blossom more,
But thou art where the dream of hope doth in fruition fade,
And Love, immortal and refin'd, glow on without a shade.