# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/On the Close of the Year 1832

ON THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1832.
The Year is past, whose hand hath led
Oft to the chamber of the dead,
Whose track amid remember'd time,
In many a race, and many a clime,
Is mark'd by agonies and fears,
And clustering graves and mourner's tears.
But we, the spar'd, the favor'd band,
Who saw Destruction's Angel nigh,
Felt his dark pinion rushing by,
Yet still among the living stand,
How heed we Heaven's protecting hand?
Marks every day its annal fair,
With faithful deeds of pious care?
And bears each moment as it flies,
Some grateful message to the skies?
Oh parted year!—how many a name
High on the sun-bright lists of fame,
Thou, with thy black and blotting pen
Hast stricken from the scroll of men.
I see a train of funeral gloom,
On Auburn's mount, a new made tomb,
Thou, nurtur'd 'neath a German sky,
With noble form, and piercing eye,
Why cam'st thou to our vales,—to die?
We hop'd thy wisdom to explore,
And calmly weigh thy treasur'd lore,
And feel, while fled the glowing hour,
Of eloquence, and truth the power,
But no!—we mourn thy sever'd span,
Spurzheim!—the friend of mind and man,
And sadly give thy native skies,
More than a stranger's sympathies.
Another knell is on the blast,
And art thou gone, the last,—the last,
Our only link that bound sublime
The present, to the ancient time?
Sage of pure mind, and patriot hand,
The last of that illustrious band,
Who in the day of fear and blood
Firm round their cradled country stood,
With diamond Egis dar'd the strife,
And gave their signet for her life,
Carroll!—though many a year had shed
Its whiteness o'er thy reverend head,
Yet as the Oak, when storms divide
Its lofty compeers from its side,
Is held more sacred, more sublime,
For every gather'd tint of time;
So we, with pride, thy crown survey'd,
And drew the stranger to thy shade.
Fain had we brought our babes to thee,
And bow'd them at thy patriarch-knee,
Thy blessing on their heads to crave,
But thou art resting in thy grave,
Yes,—thou art safe from storms, and we,
Still ride upon a boisterous sea.
Come,—to yon consecrated ground,
Where in each nook and hillock round,
Some bleeding heart its gold hath sow'd,—
And rest thee on this hallow'd mound
Where many a tear hath flow'd.
Cold o'er its snows the moon-beams shine,—
Rever'd Cornelius! is it thine?
Oh! smitten in thy glory's prime,
From polar zone to tropic clime,
Thy name is where the heathen sees
Salvation's banner on the breeze,
And mingles with their grieving prayer
Who speak a Saviour's message there.
The wandering red man hears its tone,
And starts amid the forest lone,
Or from his home's poor refuge driven,
An outcast 'neath the face of Heaven,
Turns hopeless toward the western Sea,
And as he weeps, remembers thee.
Oh forest brethren! long distrest,
Unheard, unanswering, and opprest,
When to your sad and earth-bow'd eyes,
Shall such another friend arise? With zeal to save your exil'd throng,
With breast indignant at their wrong?
When shall such smile of heavenly birth
Beam kindly by your cabin-hearth? Or when such voice of angel-strain
Breathe pitying o'er your souls again?
Genius the dazzled eye may blind,
And mystic Science awe mankind,
And patriot faith, and hoary time,
From history win the meed sublime,
But thou,—whose loss on distant shores,
Bereav'd Benevolence deplores,
A fame like thine, so pure, so deep,
Earth's tablet is too frail to keep,
And the proud worldling's vision gay,
Too dull its semblance to survey.
Oh! honor'd more than speech can tell,
True Servant of the Cross!—Farewell!
Readers and Friends!—a new-born Year
Inspires for you, the wish sincere;
May Heaven's unmeasur'd bounty bless
With health, and peace, and happiness,
A cheerful hearth, a fire-side friend
When Winter's wrathful storms descend,
A pious joy when green-rob'd Spring
And Summer suns their offerings bring,
A grateful heart 'mid Autumn's store,
Till seasons change for you no more.