Hannah Gould - Mother's Dream and Other Poems

She piped a short and sweet adieu,
As, humming on the air, she threw
Her brilliant, buoyant wing, and flew
Away from fear and me:
But, ere the hour of setting sun,
That little constant, grateful one,
Returning, had her hymn begun
In our old rustling tree.

Now do not take the fatal aim,
My tender bird to kill, or maim;
Nor let the fatal shot proclaim
Her anguish, or her fall!
But, would you know the bird I mean,
She is the first that will be seen —
The last – and every one between:
She represents them all!

I sought a meet gift, it might please thee to wear
Among the soft locks of thy fine silken hair;
And asked the two deeps for some treasure or gem,
By nature first formed and imbosomed in them.

The mine gave me threads of its fine silver ore;
The ocean cast up its smooth shells to the shore:
Of these I combined the free offering, that now
I bring, and would set o’er thy fair, peaceful brow.

The shells, thou wilt see, are unsullied and white;
The silver is modest, and precious, and bright, —
A type! thy quick fancy will readily see,
Yet thou ’lt not confess what its meaning may be.

And let the gift sometimes recall to thy mind
The friend, by whose hand its pure parts were combined;
But, oftener, that Friend, in whose hand was the skill
The earth and the seas with their treasures to fill!

O tell me the form of the soft summer air,
That tosses so gently the curls of my hair!
It breathes on my lip, and it fans my warm cheek,
But gives me no answer, though often I speak:
I feel it play o’er me, refreshing and light,
And yet cannot touch it, because I ’ve no sight!

And music – what is it? and where does it dwell?
I sink, and I mount, with its cadence and swell,
While thrilled to my heart, with its deep-going strain,
Till pleasure excessive seems turning to pain.
Now, what the bright colors of music may be,
Will any one tell me? for I cannot see.

The odors of flowers, that are hovering nigh —
What are they? – on what kind of wings do they fly?
Are not they sweet angels, who come to delight
A poor little boy, that knows nothing of sight?
The sun, moon and stars never enter my mind.
O tell me what light is, because I am blind!

There stood upon the broad high-road,
That o’er a moorland lay,
A widow’s low and lone abode,
And close beside the way.

Upon its face the dwelling bore
The signs of times within,
That seemed to say but little more
Than, “ Better days have been! ”

Behind it was the sedgy fen,
With alder, brake, and brush;
And less to serve the wants of men,
Than of the jay and thrush.

And these would sometimes come, and cheer
The widow with a song,
To let her feel a neighbor near,
And wing an hour along.

A pond, supplied by hidden springs,
With lilies bordered round,
Was found among the richest things,
That blessed the widow’s ground.

She had, besides, a gentle brook,
That wound the meadow through,
Which from the pond its being took,
And had its treasures too.

Her eldest orphan was a son;
For, children she had three;
She called him, though a little one,
Her hope for days to be.

And well he might be reckoned so,
If, from the tender shoot,
We know the way the branch will grow;
Or, by the flower, the fruit.

His tongue was true, his mind was bright;
His temper smooth and mild:
He was – the parent’s chief delight —
A good and pleasant child.

He ’d gather chips and sticks of wood,
The winter fire to make;
And help his mother dress their food,
Or tend the baking cake.

In summer time he ’d kindly lead
His little sisters out,
To pick wild berries on the mead,
And fish the brook for trout.

He stirred his thoughts for ways to earn
Some little gain; and hence,
Contrived the silver pond to turn,
In part, to silver pence.

He found the lilies blooming there
So spicy sweet to smell,
And to the eye so pure and fair,
He plucked them up to sell.

He could not to the market go:
He had too young a head,
The distant city’s ways to know;
The route he could not tread.

But, when the coming coach-wheels rolled,
To pass his humble cot,
His bunch of lilies to be sold
Was ready on the spot.

He ’d stand beside the way, and hold
His treasures up to show,
That looked like yellow stars of gold
Just set in leaves of snow.

“O buy my lilies!” he would say;
“You ’ll find them new and sweet:
So fresh from out the pond are they,
I have n’t dried my feet!”

And then he showed the dust that clung
Upon his garment’s hem,
Where late the water-drops had hung,
When he had gathered them.

And while the carriage checked its pace,
To take the lilies in,
His artless orphan tongue and face
Some bright return would win.

For many a noble stranger’s hand,
With open purse, was seen,
To cast a coin upon the sand,
Or on the sloping green.

And many a smiling lady threw
The child a silver piece;
And thus, as fast as lilies grew,
He saw his wealth increase.

While little more – and little more,
Was gathered by their sale,
His widowed mother’s frugal store
Would never wholly fail.

For He, who made, and feeds the bird,
Her little children fed.
He knew her trust: her cry he heard;
And answered it with bread.

And thus, protected by the Power,
Who made the lily fair,
Her orphans, like the meadow flower,
Grew up in beauty there.

Her son, the good and prudent boy,
Who wisely thus began,
Was long the aged widow’s joy;
And lived an honored man.

He had a ship, for which he chose
“The Lily” as a name,
To keep in memory whence he rose,
And how his fortune came.

He had a lily carved and set,
Her emblem, on her stem;
And she was called, by all she met,
A beauteous ocean gem.

She bore sweet spices, treasures bright;
And, on the waters wide,
Her sails, as lily-leaves, were white:
Her name was well applied.

Her feeling owner never spurned
The faces of the poor;
And found that all he gave returned
In blessing rich and sure.

The God, who, by the lily-pond,
Had drawn his heart above,
In after life preserved the bond
Of grateful, holy love.