# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Friends of Man

THE FRIENDS OF MAN.
The young babe sat on its mother's knee,
 Shaking its coral and bells with glee,
 When Hope drew near with a seraph smile
 To kiss the lips that had breath'd no guile
 Nor spoke the words of sorrow:
 Its little sister brought a flower,
 And Hope still lingering nigh
 With sunny tress and sparkling eye
 Whisper'd of one in a brighter bower
 It might pluck for itself to-morrow.
 The boy came in from the wintry snow,
 And mus'd by the parlor-fire,
 But ere the evening lamps did glow,
 A stranger came, and bending low
 Kiss'd his fair and ruddy brow;
 "What is that in your hand?" she said:
 "My New-Year's Gift, with its covers red."
 "Bring hither the book, my boy, and see,
 The magic spell of Memory,
 That page hath gold, and a way I'll find
 To lock it safe in your docile mind;
 For books have honey, the sages say,
That is sweet to the taste, when the hair is grey."
 The youth, at midnight sought his bed,
 But ere he clos'd his eyes,
 Two forms drew near with gentle tread,
 In meek and saintly guise,
One struck a lyre of wondrous power,
 With thrilling music fraught,
 That chain'd the flying summer hour,
 And charm'd the listener's thought;
For still would its tender cadence be
 "Follow me! Follow me!
And every morn a smile shall bring,
As sweet as the merry lay I sing."
 She ceas'd, and with a serious air
 The other made reply,
 "Shall he not also be my care?
 May not I his pleasures share?
 Sister! Sister! tell me why?
 Need Memory e'er with hope contend?
Doth not the virtuous soul, still find in both a friend?"
 The youth beheld the strife,
 And eagerly replied,
 "Come, both, and be my guide,
 And gild the path of life;"
 So he gave to each a trusting kiss,
And laid him down, and his dream was bliss.
 The man came forth to run his race,
 And ever when the morning light
 Rous'd him from the trance of night,
 When singing from her nest,
 The lark went up with dewy breast,
Hope by his pillow stood with angel grace,
 And as a mother cheers her son,
 She girded his daily harness on.
And when the star of eve, from weary care,
 Bade him to his home repair,
And by the hearth-stone where his joys were born,
 The cricket wound its tiny horn,
 Sober memory spread her board
 With knowledge richly stor'd,
And supp'd with him, and like a guardian bless'd
 His nightly rest.
The old man sat in his elbow-chair,
 His locks were thin and grey,
Memory, that faithful friend was there,
 And he in querulous tone did say,
 "Hast thou not lost, with careless key,
 Something that I have entrusted to thee?"
 Her pausing answer was sad and low,
 "It may be so! It may be so!
 The lock of my casket is worn and weak,
And Time with a plunderer's eye doth seek;
 Something I miss, but I cannot say
 What it is, he hath stolen away,
 For only tinsel and trifles spread
 Over the alter'd path we tread;
But the gems thou didst give me when life was new,
 Here they are, all told and true,
 Diamonds and rubies of changeless hue."
 But while in grave debate,
 Mournful, and ill at ease they sate,
 Finding treasures disarrang'd,
Blaming the fickle world, tho' they themselves were chang'd,
Hope on a buoyant wing did soar,
 Which folded underneath her robe she wore,
 And spread its rainbow plumes with new delight,
And jeoparded its strength in a bold, heavenward flight.
 The dying lay on his couch of pain,
 And his soul went forth to the angel-train,
Yet when Heaven's gate its golden bars undrew,
 Memory walked that portal through,
 And spread her tablet to the Judge's eye,
Heightening with clear response the welcome of the sky
 But at that threshhold high
 Hope faulter'd with a drooping eye,
 And as the expiring Rose,
Doth in its last adieu its sweetest breath disclose,
 Lay down to die.
 As a spent harp its symphony doth roll,
 Faintly her parting sigh
Breath'd to a glorious form that stood serenely by,
 "Earth's pilgrim I resign,
I cheer'd him to his grave, I lov'd him, he was mine,
 Christ hath redeem'd his soul,
 Immortal joy! 'tis thine."