# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Zinzendorff

The superscript numbers in the text are linked to the Notes.
ZINZENDORFF.
Twas Summer in Wyoming.— Through the breast
Of that fair vale, the Susquehannah roam'd,
Wearing its robe of silver, like a bride.
Now, with a noiseless current, gliding slow
'Mid the rich velvet of its curtaining banks,
It seem'd to sleep,—o'erwearied with the toil
By which its roughly-guarded pass was won;—
Then hasting on, refreshing and refresh'd,
Vaunting the glories of its sylvan home,
It spread a mirror to the changeful cloud
In chrystal beauty.— From the towering hills
That revel in the sunbeams, or retire
Shrouded in mist, the gazing traveller drinks
Such deep delight, as only Nature gives,
When in her garb of loveliness, she mocks
Pencil, and power of speech.—Yon pictur'd chart
Of lawn, and stream, and mountain's shadowy height,
And rocks in quiet verdure meekly bower'd,
Rebukes the pomp of cities, and the strife
Of competition, and the lust of gold.
—The landscape hath a legend: hurrying steps
Of stately warriors,—valor, prompt and proud
To guard its nested loves,—the fatal wile
Of Indian ambuscade,—the madden'd shout
Of massacre,—the flight of timid forms,
And moan of sireless orphans.
History's hand,
And minstrel's art have glean'd these glowing tints,
And wrought them deftly, like a crimson thread
Into their tissues. 'Tis not mine to choose
A theme so bold,—though I have trod the turf
Whose greenness told what moisture nourish'd it,
And ponder'd pensive o'er that monument
Where the last relics of the fallen brave
Were gathered by their sons. Yes, I have mus'd
'Mid that enchanted scenery, while the thrill
From kindred bosoms, and the vision'd past
Was strong within my soul. Yet, 'tis not meet
That I should tell of war, or woo the tones
Of that high harp, which, struck in England's halls,
Hath made the name of Gertrude, and the lore
Of sad Wyoming's chivalry, a part
Of classic song.
A wilder scene I seek,
Ancient and barren, where the red man reign'd
Sole lord, before the usurping plough had dar'd
A trace of subjugation, or the eye
Of Science, in its darkling bed discern'd
The slumbering Anthracite, which now doth draw
Exploring thousands to its ebon throne,
Like a swarth king of Afric. The high arch
Of the cloud-sweeping forest, proudly cast
A solemn shadow, for no sound of axe
Had taught the monarch Oak dire principles
Of revolution, or brought down the Pine,
Like haughty baron from his castled height.
Thus dwelt the kings of Europe,—ere the voice
Of the crusading monk, with whirlwind tone
Did root them from their base, with all their hosts,
Tossing the red-cross banner to the sky,
And pouring like a torrent o'er the wilds
Of wondering Asia.
The rude native tribes,
Fast by the borders of the gentle streams
Carv'd out their heritage, with rival heart,
And hand uncourteous. There the Shawanese
With surest arrow stay'd the flying deer,
And the bold Delaware with giant arm
Impell'd his swift canoe. In feudal pride
Oft the fierce chieftains led their eager hosts
To savage battle, or with oathless truce
Drew back in transient brotherhood, the hordes
Of wrathful warriors. In their cane-roof'd homes
Some budding virtues sprang as best they might
Beneath the chill and baleful atmosphere
Of savage life. The dusky mother prest
Her new-born infant with a rapturous thrill
Of unimagin'd love, and the glad sire
Saw his young boy with eager skill maintain
Against the opposing stream a venturous path,
Or firmer knit his sinews in the chase.
The lip of woman told the treasur'd lore
Of other times, and 'mid the tasks and toils
Of vassalage kept bright the historic chain,
As the sad vestal nurs'd the sacred fire,
—The young kept silence, while the old man spake,
And bowing down before the hoary head,
Rever'd the wisdom that doth wait on time.
—But still the cloud of paganism did blight
The blossom of their virtues, brooding dark
With raven pinion o'er the gloomy soul.
——I said that Summer glow'd.—
And with her came
A white-brow'd stranger. Open as the day
Was his fair, noble forehead, and his voice
In its sweet intonations, threw a charm
O'er rudest spirits. Not with more surprise
Gaz'd the stern Druid, 'mid his mystic rites,
On good Augustine, preaching words of peace,
What time with hatred fierce and unsubdued,
The woad-stain'd Briton in his wattled boat
Quail'd neath the glance of Rome.
Thus fix'd the eye
Of jealous chieftains and their wandering clans
On Zinzendorff.—Sought he to grasp their lands?
To search for gold? to found a mystic throne
Of dangerous power? Where the red council-fire
Disturb'd the trance of midnight, long they sate
Weighing his purpose with a cautious tone
In grave debate. For scarce they deem'd it truth
That from a happy home, o'er Ocean's wave,
He thus should come, to teach a race unknown
Of joys beyond the tomb. Their fetter'd minds
Still blindly rul'd by groping ignorance,
Sank at the threshhold of such bold belief,
And with the skeptic doubt of modern times,
The Missionary scann'd.
Yet some there were
Who listen'd spell-bound to his charmed words;
The sick man drew them as the dew of heaven
Into his fever'd bosom, while the hymn
That swell'd melodious o'er the open grave,
Sooth'd the sad mourner 'mid his heathen woe.
Young children gather'd at his beaming smile,
And learn'd the name of Jesus,—pressing close
To touch his garments, or to feel his hand
Resting upon their heads. Such power hath love
O'er sweet simplicity, ere Sin hath taught
Suspicion's lesson.—
By the bed of death
The Teacher stood, where the grim Sachem fear'd
By many tribes, found in his latest foe
The first that conquer'd him. The man of might
Stretch'd on his couch of skins, supinely lay,
With every nerve unstrung. Around his hut,
The deer's proud antler, and the wampum belt
Dispos'd mid gaudy implements of war,
The well-fill'd quiver, and the feathery plume,
Show'd that pre-eminence which rank doth claim
'Mid penury and pain. One youthful form,
A lonely daughter, last of all his flock,
Tended his dying pillow, with the care
Of native tenderness. The water-gourd
She wept as he rejected,—and her eye
Gleam'd through its tears so beautiful, that none
Who gaz'd, remember'd that her cheek was dark.
She was a gentle creature, and she rose
Parting the raven tresses from her brow,
And bowing down with reverent grace, to meet
The Man of God.
He mark'd the mortal strife
Draw near its close. Cold dews of suffering stood
Upon the rigid temples, and the breath
Was like that sob, with which the swimmer breasts
The surge that whelms him. Then, a tone subdued
And tremulous with pity and with zeal,
Breath'd in his ear.
“Chieftain! the ice of death
Is in thy breast. Doth aught disturb the soul,
Or make its passage fearful?"
—No reply,
Save one impatient gesture from the hand
That seem'd a skeleton's.
"Hast thou not been
A man of blood?—Repent thee! Speak the name
Of Jesus, the Redeemer. Let thy thought
Ascend with mine, my brother, while I plead
Acceptance for thee at the gate of heaven,
Through Him, who from the tyrant Death did wrest
The victory."
But then a hollow voice
Brake forth, like smother'd thunders.
"Go thy way
Thou Christian Teacher! I can deal with Death
Alone. Hence! Hence! I charge thee bring no soul
That thou hast nurtur'd, to the red man's heaven,
For we will drive it thence. My glorious sires!"
—And then he murmur'd what they could not hear,
But ever and anon, he fiercely rais'd
His clenching hand as in the battle strife,
To draw the arrow to its utmost head,
Or sway the cleaving hatchet. All in vain;
Like Priam's dart, the airy weapon fell,
For cold paralysis did work within
The citadel of life.
 There was a pause
Of awful stillness. Had the flickering lamp
Fail'd in that passion-gust?
 The daughter bent
In agonizing dread, and wip'd the dew
That stood like drops of rain, and laid her cheek
Close by the ghastly sleeper,—hoping still
To hush him gently to a peaceful dream,
As the meek mother lulls her troubled child.
But when no more the gasp, or fitful sigh
Stole on her, breathless listening,—starting up,
She threw the casement higher, and the breeze
Blew freshly o'er his brow, while grey-rob'd dawn
Did faintly struggle with the stars, to force
Her way, the gentle minister of peace
To an ungrateful world. Then first the pang
Of poignant grief that rives the proudest soul
Came over that young creature, and she cried
With a loud voice of misery, to him
Who pray'd the Christian's prayer, that he would lift
The voice of supplication for her sire,
Ere it should be too late. There was a sound
From that low couch,—a sudden gush of breath,
As if the grave did chafe with prison'd winds,
Driving them thence. The eye unsealing, flash'd
Strange fires, like frost-bound Hecla. Anger rush'd
In furious storm-cloud o'er that tortur'd brow,
Making Death horrible.
 "And art thou false,
False to our own Great Spirit? Thou, the last
Of all my nested warblers,—dost thou turn,
And pluck the wing that shelter'd thee? I would
That He who hurls the lightning!"——but the curse
Froze on his lip, and with a hideous groan
As if in combat with some giant-foe,
Who to his lion heart had found the way,
He wrestled and fell back, to rise no more.
—Then rose the sob of weeping, and the prayer
Of earnest faith. It was a fearful scene,—
Death, and young sorrow, and unearthly zeal,
Dividing that low mansion. But the space
Was brief for such companionship. The tramp,
And heavy tread of many hasting feet
Came echoing o'er the threshhold; for the throng
Who held their Sachem as a god, did shrink
To see him die. But now the deed was done,
And the stern Chief lay as the powerless babe,
They who would tremble at his awful glance,
And do his bidding with a spaniel's dread,
Now casting off their abject terror, stood
Closest beside him. From the weaker sex
Burst forth a tide of sympathy, to soothe
The orphan maid: for pity cannot quit
Her hold on woman, whatsoe'er her garb
Or lineament may be, howe'er the sun
Have burnt dark tints upon her, or the yoke
Of vassalage and scorn have bow'd her low,
Still doth her spirit at another's pain
Vibrate, as the swept lyre.—  'Twas sad to see
Those hoary elders pacing one by one,
So slow and mournful from their fallen chief,
And ranging in mute circle on the lawn
Beside his dwelling. There a towering line
Of warriors gather'd, such as ne'er had blench'd
To follow where he pointed, tho' the earth
Were saturate with blood, or the keen lance
Of ambush glitter'd thro' the quivering leaves.
Now, sad of heart, with heads declin'd they stood,
As men who lose the battle. Flocking still,
Came mothers with their sons. A nation mourn'd
Like one vast family. No word was spoke,
As when the friends of desolated Job,
Finding the line of language all too short
To fathom woe like his, sublimely paid
That highest homage at the throne of Grief,
Deep silence.
 Now the infant morning rais'd
Her rosy eyelids. But no soft breeze mov'd
The forest lords to shake the dews of sleep
From their green coronals.
 The curtaining mist
Hung o'er the quiet river, and it seem'd
That Nature found the summer night so sweet,
That mid the stillness of her deep repose
She shunn'd the wakening of the King of Day.
—But there, beneath a broad and branching Elm
Stood forth the holy man, in act to speak.
There was a calmness on his pallid brow,
That told of heaven. His stainless life had flow'd
Pure as his creed. Had the whole warring world
With passion quaked, he would have made himself
A green oasis 'mid the strife of tongues,
And there have dwelt secure.
Strong words, whose power
Can tame the sinful heart, he boldly spake,
And show'd to penitence, the faith which heals
The barb of anguish and the sting of death,
And rooting by the lowly cross, sheds forth
Such fragrance as immortal spirits breathe
In cloudless climes. The Gospel's glorious hope,
Its rule of purity, its eye of prayer,
Its foot of firmness on temptation's steep,
Its bark that fails not 'mid the storm of death,
He spread before them, and with gentlest tone,
Such as a brother to his sister breathes,
His little sister, simple and untaught,
Did urge them to the shelter of that ark
Which rides the wrathful deluge.
 Not a breath
Disturb'd the tide of eloquence. So fix'd
Were that rude auditory, it would seem
Almost as if a nation had become
Bronz'd into statues. Now and then a sigh,
The unbidden messenger of thought profound,
Parted the lip; or some barbarian brow
Contracted closer in a haughty frown,
As scowl'd the cynick, 'mid his idol-fanes,
When on Mars-Hill the inspired Apostle preach'd
Jesus of Nazareth.
 The furrow'd soil
Was soft with sorrow. So the rain of heaven
Sank deeper in. What seed was sown that hour,
Eternity can tell. Brief human breath
Pour'd on the wind-harp of a hallow'd lip,
What marvels hath it wrought! and stranger still,
One ink-drop on a solitary thought,
Hath stirr'd the mind of millions.
 Where a cliff
Doth beetle rudely from the mountain's breast,
And dripping with a chilly moisture, make
Perpetual weeping,—was a lonely cave!
Rock-ribbed and damp.—There dwelt an aged man,
Fear'd as a prophet by the unletter'd race
Who sought his counsel, when some work of guilt
Did need a helper. Wondrous tales they told
Of dark communion with a shadowy world,
And of strange power to rule the demon shapes
That shriek'd and mutter'd in his cell, when storms
At midnight strove. Of his mysterious date
The living held no record. Palsying Age
The elastick foot enchain'd, which erst would climb
The steep unwearied—and the wither'd flesh
Clos'd round each sinew with a mummy's clasp;
As if some gaunt and giant shape, embalm'd
At Thebes or Memphis, when the world was young,
Should from its stain'd sarcophagus, protrude
The harden'd limb, and send a grating sound
From the cold, lungless breast.
 And there he dwelt,
Austere, in such drear hermitage, as seem'd
Most like a tomb, gleaning from roots and herbs
Scant nutriment. Fierce passions, brooding dark
In solitude and abstinence, had made
A hater of mankind. But when he heard
Of the white stranger, with his creed of love
Seducing red men's hearts, hot seeds of wrath
Smoulder'd within his bosom,—like a fire
Fed in some charnel house. Revenge he vow'd,
And every day was one long-troubled pause
Of meditation, on that dire resolve.
—Thus he, who taught to Earth the taste of blood,
Ere scarce that music of the stars was hush'd,
Which joyous o'er creation's cradle flow'd,
Cover'd the thought of murder in his heart,
Till his red eye-balls started, and like flame
Glar'd on his shepherd-brother, as he led
On by the living streams, his trusting flock.
—So strong in that misanthrope's bosom wrought
A frenzied malice, that his cavern's bound
Oft echoed to hoarse shouts, as fancy drew
The image of his enemy, and rais'd
A mimick warfare. Then uplifting high
The tomahawk, he impotently dream'd
To have his will,—but at each foil'd attempt
Cursing the weakness of his blasted arm,
He struck his bony hand against his breast
In self-consuming madness. Every night
Was one wild, tossing vision,—acting o'er
The deed of murder, with a baffled aim,
And deeming at each random stroke, the foe
Did multiply himself.
 At length, strong hate
Wrought out its likeness in the savage breast
Of three grim warriors. Listening oft and long
To his dire incantations, forth they went,
Once, when the pall of darkness veiled the scene,
To do his purpose. Keenly were they arm'd,
And inly fortified by every spell
Which that dire necromancer could devise,
To bind obedience. Eagerly they sought
The abode of Zinzendorff. His lonely tent
Rear'd its white bosom thro' embowering shades,
As if some remnant of the wintry snow
Did linger there. The earliest cluster'd grape
Was in its purple flush,—and twilight's breath
Betray'd a chill, prelusive of the sway
Of sober autumn.
 Through a narrow chasm
In his slight screen, glar'd the assassins' eyes,
As when the fierce and fell hyena finds
A fleshless carcase. Stern, and hard of heart!
How can ye cleave the breast that thrills for you
With generous sympathy? But what know they
Of soft compunction?—train'd from youth to tear
The scalp fresh bleeding from the tortur'd brain,
To mock the victim, writhing at the stake,
Or hurl the mother, with her wailing babe
Into the wigwam's flame.
 Slow midnight came,
In dark companionship with sullen storms,
The red pine blazes in the old man's cave,
And every moment mov'd with leaden feet,
To him who trac'd it on the dial-plate
Of mad impatience and unresting sin.
At length, above the tempest's groan, is heard
The sound of rushing steps. His blood-shot eyes
Look'd fiery glad, as when a tiger marks
The unwary traveller near his jungle draw.
And as the mother of Herodias snatch'd
The reeking charger, and the sever'd head
Of John the Baptist,—so he thought to grasp
The expected trophy of that soft, brown hair,
Sprinkled with early grey. The warriors spake
With troubled tone.
"Father and Prophet, hear!
We found him in his tent. Alone he sat,
Like some unwelcom'd stranger. Pity came
Into our breasts, so mournful was his brow.
Still was his death-doom deep within our souls,
For so we promis'd thee. But then he bow'd
His knee to earth, and with a tender voice
Did pray for Indians.
To the white man's God
He bore our nation, with a brother's heart:
Yea, even for our little ones besought
A place in heaven. But still we firmly grasp'd
The murderous knife, for so we promis'd thee.
Then, with a feathery instrument, he trac'd
That speaking leaf, by which the pale-fac'd men
Bewitch and bow the mind. On the white page
He seem'd to press his soul, and pour it out,
As the bruis'd plant doth give its essence forth
From every leaf and fibre. While we gaz'd,
Lo! the dread king of venomous serpents came,
The fatal rattle-snake. So then we saw
That our Great Spirit sent Death's messenger,
To punish him. We waited to behold
His swollen visage, and his eyes suffus'd
With mortal pain.
Prophet! we speak the truth!
Believe our words. Close coiling at his feet,
With brightening tints, and wrath-enkindled eyes,
The reptile lay. But then, as if subdued
By the meek magic of his beaming smile,
Drew back the forked tongue, that quivering long'd
To dart the o'erflowing poison,—and with crest
Erect and sparkling, glided slow away.
Doubtless he is a god. We dared not raise
The hand against him. For the power forsook
Our limbs, and scarcely have we totter'd here
To bring thee tidings. Prophet! bid no more
His blood be shed. The deadly snake disarm'd,
The might departing from our warrior-hearts
That never blench'd in battle, or turn'd back
From mortal man, bear witness, he is god."
—A shriek rose sharply o'er the warring winds,
“Hence,—curs'd and woman-hearted! Would this arm
Might but one moment claim its ancient strength,
And lay ye low. Hence! See my face no more!"
—And so he drove them forth, tho' sounding rains
Did roar like torrents down the rifled rocks,
And lightnings cleaving wide the trembling cloud,
Blacken'd the forest-pines.
 Time sped his wing,
And on the Lehigh's solitary banks
The Missionary stood. O'er that smooth tide
The pensive moon wrote out in pencil'd rays,
The same deep language, which his boyhood read
Upon the billowy Rhine. Mild evening's breeze,
Stirring the interlacing of the elms,
And the slight reeds that fring'd the river's brink,
Pour'd the same soul-dissolving sigh, that swept
His own Lusatian forests. And the voice—
The writing, were of God.
 Serene he mus'd,
And felt that every spot on earth's wide breast
Was home to him, for there his Father dwelt,
And all men were his brethren. On that hour
Of high devotion, had the Spoiler stole,
His step had been mistaken for the sound
Of the soft rustling of angelic wings;
And the soul's welcome to the stroke that rends
Its fond yet strange affinity with clay,
Had been sublime.
To the believer, Death
Is like the lion which the strong man slew,
And the sweet bees did with their waxen robe
And food ambrosial, cover.
He who found
This blest enthusiasm nerve his weary heart,
Like manna in the wilderness,—now toil'd
As a colonial sire, and thoughtful plann'd
'Mid shelter'd vallies, and aspiring hills,
Fit refuge for his brethren. Hence arose
Fair Bethlehem, with all its pure retreats
And peaceful hearths; and still its classic dome,
Where Education with the plastic mind
Of childhood, mingleth holiest elements,
Doth venerate his name.
But now the hour
That took the shepherd from his simple flock
Drew swiftly on: for still the cherish'd form
Of her whose cheek was pallid for his sake,
Blent with his every dream,—and thoughts of home,
Sweet household music, long-remember'd tones,
The far-off echoes of his stately halls,
Had like the voice of many waters, been
Strong in his inmost soul, even while he spake
Salvation's message to the forest-child.
—His work of mercy done, the white sail spreads
From that broad city's queenly breast, which bears
The filial impress of the Man of Peace,
Who on the blended rivers bas'd her throne,
And grav'd upon his signet-ring her name
Of love fraternal.
But behold! a throng
In uncouth garments, and with savage port
Invade the parting scene. With wondering eye,
But lip immoveable, they scan the domes,
And groves, and gardens. Native pride restrain'd
The voice of admiration, but the seal
Of abject wretchedness seem'd deeper stamp'd
Upon their forehead, as they mark'd a pomp
Ill understood, and felt in their own realm
Their sceptre broken. Not more wildly gleam'd
The tangled elf-locks of the astonish'd Gauls,
Who, trampling on the majesty of Rome,
Saw her grave Senate in their curule chairs,
And deem'd them demi-gods.
The red-brow'd sires,
And the sad mothers with their little ones
Fast by their side, and on their shoulders bound
Their helpless infants, throng'd to deprecate
The Teacher's absence, and with tears implore
A parting blessing. Kneeling on the strand
His tender supplication, by their sobs
Oft interrupted, sought the ear of heaven.
—Long with despairing eye, they watch'd the bark
Cutting its watery path. Methought their brows
By misery furrow'd o'er, in strongest lines,
Like some deep-trac'd phylactery, reveal'd
Prophetic sentence of their fated race,
Which unrelenting Destiny should waste,
Till like the mighty Mastodon, it leave
Nought save its bones among us.
In the heart
Of Zinzendorff, their murmur'd farewell tones
Dwelt,—a perpetual cadence, prompting oft
The interceding prayer. It duly rose
Ere the bright morn sprang up from Ocean's bed,
Or when amid his garniture of clouds
Purple and gold, the gorgeous Sun retir'd
Into his kingly chamber. Then a voice
As of a father for an outcast son,
O'er whom his pity yearns, blent with the sigh
And surging thunder of the sleepless wave,
Bearing the sorrows of the wandering tribes
To Mercy's ear.
Nor were their souls forgot
By their kind shepherd, mid the joys of home,
While 'neath his own baronial shades, he sought
To spread a banner o'er the sect he lov'd,—
That peaceful sect, which like the man who lean'd
On Jesus breast at supper, best imbib'd
The spirit of his love.
Hail! ye who went
Untiring teachers to the heathen tribes,
And kneeling with your barbarous pupils, shap'd
Their rude articulations into prayer.
Ye fear'd nor tropic suns, nor polar ice,
Nor subterranean cell. Ye did not shrink
To plant the Tree of Life 'mid arctic frosts,
That the poor Greenlander might taste its fruits,
And 'mid his rayless night, devoutly bless
The Sun of Righteousness. Ye did not shun
The savage in his ignorance, or loathe
To share his hut.
The passport to your care
Hath been the sign of deepest wretchedness,
The Ethiop forehead, and the name of slave.
—Teach us your self-denial,—we who strive
To pluck the mote out of our brother's creed,
Till Charity's forgotten plant doth ask
The water-drop, and die. With zeal we watch
And weigh the doctrine, while the spirit 'scapes;
And in the carving of our cummin-seeds,
Our metaphysical hair-splittings, fail
To note the orbit of that star of love
Which never sets.
Yea, even the heathen tribes
Who from our lips, amid their chaos dark,
First heard the "fiat lux,"—and joyous came
Like Lazarus from his tomb, do wilder'd ask
What guide to follow; for they see the men
They took for angels, warring in their paths
For Paul, and for Apollos, till they lose
The certainty that they are one in Christ,—
That simple clue, which thro' life's labyrinth
Leads to heaven's gate.
Each differing sect, whose base
Is on the same Pure Word, doth strictly scan
Its neighbor's superstructure,—point and arch,—
Buttress and turret,—till the hymn of praise,
That from each temple should go up to God,
Sinks in the critic's tone. All Christendom
Is one eternal burnishing of shields,
And girding on of armor. So the heat
Of border warfare checks Salvation's way.
The free complexion of another's thought
Doth militate against him, and those shades
Of varying opinion and belief,
Which sweetly blended with the skill of love,
Would make the picture beautiful, are blam'd
As features of deformity.
 We toil
To controvert,—to argue,—to defend,
Camping amidst imaginary foes,
And vision'd heresies. Even brethren deem
A name of doctrine, or a form of words
A dense partition-wall,—tho' Christ hath said,
"See, that ye love each other."
 So, come forth,
Ye, who have safest kept that Saviour's law
Green as a living germ within your souls,
Followers of Zinzendorff, stand meekly forth,
And with the gentle panoply of love,
Persuade the sister churches to recall
Their wasted energies, and concentrate
In one bright focal point, their quenchless zeal,
Till from each region of the darken'd globe,
The everlasting Gospel's glorious wing
Shall wake the nations to Jehovah's praise.