Zinzendorff and Other Poems

Front matter

ZINZENDORFF.

ZINZENDORFF,

AND

Zinzendorff

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 1 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 2 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 3 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 4 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. 2I said that Summer glow'd.— And with her came A white-brow'd 5 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 6 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!"2but 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. 7 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, 8 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 9 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 10 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 11 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 12 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, 13 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 14 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.

Notes to Zinzendorff

NOTES.

Note1

1 "Its roughly-guarded pass."

The Susquehannah, after entering Luzerne county, Penn., breaks into the valley of Wyoming, near the mouth of the Lackawana, through a narrow mountain chasm, rendered rugged by perpendicular rocks, and after pursuing a serpentine course, for twenty miles, breaks again out of the valley, at a similar pass, called the "Nanticoke gap."

Note2

2 "The landscape hath a legend:"

The battle fought on the 3d of July, 1778, between the Americans, under the command of Col. Zebulon Butler, and the British, led on by Col. John Butler, and a Chieftain of mixed blood, named Brandt, is sometimes styled both in history and poetry, the "Wyoming massacre."

Note3

3 "Where the last relics of the fallen brave Were gather'd by their sons."

"The occasion of our assembling in this spot, is one of no common interest: to witness the re-interment of the mutilated bones of our ancestors, and to perform the grateful duty of laying the corner-stone of their monument. This work of gratitude is destined, in the language of the eloquent Webster, to 'rise till it meet the sun in his coming,—till the earliest light of morning shall gild it, and the parting day linger and play upon its summit.—Oration of Chester Butler, Esq., on laying the corner-stone of the Wyoming monument, July 3d, 1833.

Note4

4 "The slumbering Anthracite."

The beautiful vale of Wyoming is distinguished by the anthracite coal formation. This valuable mineral, as exhibited in that region, is unsurpassed in richness and brilliancy, and in quantity apparently inexhaustible.

Note5

5 "A white-brow'd stranger."

Count Zinzendorff, a nobleman of Saxony, the restorer of the ancient church of the United Brethren, or Moravians, performed a mission to the Indians of Wyoming, in the year 1742, He is asserted to have been the first white person who had ever visited that portion of the Shawanese and Delaware tribes, who held dominion in the valley.

Note6

6 "The woad-stain'd Briton, in his wattled boat."

The boats of the ancient Britons were composed of basket-work, covered with the skins of beasts. So much were these baskets admired in Rome, and such quantities were exported there, that one of their satirical poets ridicules them as among the luxuries of his countrymen, more than a hundred years after the conquest of the British isles.

Note7

7 "The fatal rattle-snake."

"Zinzendorff was alone in his tent, seated upon a bundle of dry weeds that composed his bed, and engaged in writing, when the Indians, who had determined to murder him, approached to execute their bloody commission. It was night, and the cool air of September rendered a small fire necessary to his comfort. A curtain formed of a blanket, and hung upon pins, was the only guard to the entrance of his tent. The heat of the fire aroused a large rattle-snake, which crawled slowly into the tent, and passed over his feet undiscovered. At this moment, the assassins softly approached the door of his tent, and slightly removing the curtain, contemplated the venerable man, too deeply absorbed in meditation to notice either their approach, or the venomous snake that lay extended before him. At this sight, even savage hearts shrank from their deadly purpose, and suddenly quitting the spot, they bore tidings that the white man was in league with the Great Spirit.—Chapman's History of Wyoming.

Note8

8 "Fair Bethlehem."

Zinzendorff, during his second voyage to America, founded the colony of Bethlehem,—a spot celebrated both for its beauty of scenery, and its school, where the elements of piety are blended with the whole process of education, and presented to the young mind, as the source of daily serenity and joy, as well as of future felicity.