Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Sunset on the Alleghany
SUNSET ON THE ALLEGHANY.
I was a pensive pilgrim at the foot
Of the crown'd Alleghany, when he wrapp'd
His purple mantle gloriously around,
And took the homage of the princely hills,
And ancient forests, as they bow'd them down,
Each in his order of nobility.
—And then, in glorious pomp, the sun retir'd
Behind their solemn shadow. And his train
Of crimson, and of azure and of gold
Went floating up the zenith,—tint on tint,
And ray on ray,—till all the concave caught
His parting benediction.
But the glow
Faded to twilight, and dim twilight sank
In deeper shade, and there that mountain stood
In awful state, like dread ambassador
'Tween earth and heaven. Methought it frown'd severe,
Upon the world beneath, and lifted up
The accusing forehead sternly toward the sky
To witness 'gainst its sins. And is it meet
For thee, swell'd out in cloud-cap'd pinnacle
To scorn thine own original, the dust
That feebly eddying on the angry winds
Doth sweep thy base? Say, is it meet for thee,
Robing thyself in mystery, to impeach
This nether sphere, from whence thy rocky root
Draws depth and nutriment?
But lo! a star
The first meek herald of advancing night,
Doth peer above thy summit, as some babe
Might gaze with brow of timid innocence
Over a giant's shoulder. Hail, lone star!
Thou friendly watcher o'er an erring world,
Thine uncondemning glance doth aptly teach
Of that untiring mercy, which vouchsafes
Thee light,—and man salvation.
Not to mark
And treasure up his follies, or recount
Their secret record in the court of Heaven,
Thou coms't. Methinks, thy tenderness would shroud
With trembling mantle, his infirmities.
The purest natures are most pitiful.
But they who feel corruption strong within,
Do launch their darts most fiercely at the trace
Of their own image, in another's breast.
—So the wild bull, that in some mirror spies
His own mad visage, furiously destroys
The frail reflector. But thou, stainless Star!
Shalt stand a watchman on Creation's walls,
While race on race their little round shall mark,
And slumber in the tomb. Still point to all,
Who thro' this evening scene may wander on,
And from yon mountain's cold magnificence
Turn to thy milder beauty, point to all,
The eternal love that nightly sends thee forth,
A silent teacher of its boundless lore.