# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/A Dream

A DREAM.
Loud howl'd the storm of Winter's ire
As pensive by my evening fire,
Thought, long involv'd in reverie deep,
Sank wearied in the arms of sleep.
—Methought a rushing wing swept by,
And hoary Time himself stood nigh
Who scythe and hour-glass casting down,
And smiling thro' a wrinkled frown,
A tube display'd, whose power sublime
 Could bring before the eye
Past ages, and remotest climes
 With graphic imagery.
Some distant land I sought to see
 When the last century shone,
Ere the blest Gospel's ministry
 On mission-wings had flown:
And through that tube my glance he led
Where northern seas their limits spread,
Where the rough ice-berg shocks the pole,
And wintry midnight chains the soul.
There in a subterranean cell
 Her watch a Greenland mother kept,
And while the lamp's faint radiance fell,
 Over her dying infant wept.
But when beneath the snowy mound
Its narrow, noteless grave was found,
Wild were her shrieks of woe severe,
No voice from Heaven, her pangs to cheer.
—Where the red tropic fiercely burn'd
To dark-brow'd Afric next we turn'd,
But she, to nameless miseries left,
Despis'd,—degraded, crush'd, bereft,
Beheld the slave-ship's tireless sail,
And heard her fetter'd offspring wail,
With gaze forever on the main,
Watch'd for their hop'd return, in vain;
Night told to night her sleepless care,
And ages mock'd her fix'd despair,
While her loud anguish woke the wave,
Invoking gods that could not save.
—Where Ganges rolls his worshipp'd tide,
Or glittering Hoogly's waters glide,
With lip comprest, and stifled groan
The Fakir hardens into stone,
 While throngs exulting cry,
And pilgrims' bones are heedless strown
 Beneath a torrid sky.
What means yon reeking, reddening pile?
And whence that widow's madden'd smile?
As towards the martyr-couch she goes,
Regardless of her children's woes.
Away!—I would not longer gaze
On barbarous Superstition's maze.
—Time chang'd his glass, and bade me see
The deeds of heaven-born Charity,
When fir'd with zeal her heralds found
The farthest globe's benighted bound.
And lo! upon the frost-bound shore
Of sun-forsaken Labrador,
The heaven-ward spire, the sacred song,
The Pastor and his listening throng,
With Christian hope and love supplied
The gifts that rigorous Earth denied.
And from the classic clime, behold!
The cloud of Moslem wrath had roll'd
Yet no proud lay of Attic lore
Nor bacchanal with maddening roar
 Peal'd from that sunny coast,
But infant voices lisping came
Of knowledge, and a Saviour's name,
Winning for Greece a higher fame
 Than heathen annals boast.
Thou too, Oh Afric! undismay'd,
Reclining 'neath thy palm-trees shade,
Dost mark with rapture's thrilling tide,
Enfranchis'd thousands seek thy side,
With filial hand thy tears to dry
And found an empire for the sky.
—Sad Zion! doth thy footstep stray
Far from thy temple-shrine away?
Sweet is the breath of Sharon's rose,
In limpid silver Siloah flows,
And Hermon woos the scented air,
Where art thou, blinded exile! where?
Return, thou homeless and opprest,
And 'neath Messiah's sceptre rest.
On waken'd India's sultry shore,
The Suttee's flame aspires no more,
And idol-ear, and thundering gong
And haughty priest, and pagan throng
Recede, as darkness fades away
Before the morning's golden ray.
—In Burmah's dew-besprinkled soil
How blest the laborer's arduous toil;
'Mid danger's blast their seed was sown,
The harvest-fruits are God's alone:
Press on, firm band! the martyr's sigh
On fields like these, is victory.
—'Mid China's vale, serenely bold,
Their way Salvation's heralds hold,
While millions pale with penury's strife,
Hear wondering of the bread of life.
Broad Ocean's isles in loud acclaim
Extol the blest Redeemer's name,
And Earth with countless tongues doth pour
The echoing praise from shore to shore.
—Time pois'd his wing, as if for flight,
But of my native land a sight,
With patriot ardor I besought,
And toward the west, his tube he brought.
I look'd, and skies, and vales, and streams
Were bright with nature's glorious beams,
And from each haunt came swelling by
The shout of boasted Liberty;
Yet other sounds were on the gale,
Of Afric's sons, the bitter wail,
The scourge, the chain, the bitter tear
Of slavery's lot, what do they here!
—I sought the red-brow'd race, who bore
Dominion o'er this ancient shore,
But lofty king, and chieftain grave,
Had vanish'd like the crested wave;
Where are those warriors brave and free? The hoarse tomb answer'd "here with me."
Time saw their hearth-stones cold and void,
Their ancient sepulchres destroy'd,
Resum'd his scythe, in anger dread,
And broke my vision, as he fled.