Hannah Gould - Mother's Dream and Other Poems

Angels are softly untwining the strings,
Loosing its ties to the beautiful clay;
Lo! they have lifted their hovering wings:
Joyous they waft her in triumph away!

Sorrow not now, o’er the spiritless form,
While on its features death’s lilies unfold:
Break not the heart for another so warm,
Stopt in its pulse by a finger so cold.

Time ne’er shall whiten a lock of that hair,
Silken and full, round the forehead, that shines.
Age shall not come, nor the finger of care,
Marking that brow with their deep-going lines.

Ne’er will those lips be unsealed by the sigh:
Anguish will never that bosom invade:
Tears roll no more from that calm sleeping eye:
Peace o’er the clay her smooth mantle has laid.

Plant a young flower, in beauty to spread,
Tender and pure, where the dust shall repose.
Look then from earth, whence the bright spirit fled,
Up, where to gladness and glory it rose.

Spare, ruthless fowler, spare
That harmless robin’s breast!
Its downy vesture do not tear;
But leave the life-blood circling there,
Again to warm her nest;
For she is hastening home with food
Provided for her callow brood.

Her tender offspring see,
Were now thy shot to fly,
Left, as thy helpless babes would be,
’Reft of their mother and of thee,
To moan, and pine, and die.
Then let her pass unhurt along;
And she will thank thee with a song.

Thou, whose power assumes the form,
Now, of this wild wintry storm,
Let it still in mercy be
Shown upon the raging sea!
O! for him, who tosses there,
Father, hear this midnight prayer!

Solemn darkness shrouds the world;
While, with mighty wings unfurled,
Thus the winds in fury sweep
O’er the land, and o’er the deep,
Thou, whose thought from death can save,
Guard the life that ’s on the wave!

Cold and dreary is the night;
Snow-clouds wrap the beacon-light;
Rocks and ices, like a host
Armed for battle, bar the coast;
For the coming bark appear!
Guide her! save her! Father, hear!

I ’m bound to the house of my Father;
O draw not my feet from the way;
Nor stop me these wild flowers to gather!
They droop at my touch, and decay.
I think of the flowers, that are blooming
In beauty unfading above,
The wings of the angels perfuming,
Who fly down on errands of love.

Of earth’s shallow waters the drinking
Is powerless my thirst to allay;
Their taste is of tears, while we ’re sinking
Beside them, where quicksands betray.
I long, from that fount ever-living,
That flows by my Father’s own door,
With waters so sweet and life-giving,
To drink, and to thirst never more.

The gold of his bright, happy dwelling
Makes all lower gold to look dim;
Its treasures, all treasures excelling,
Shine forth to allure me to Him.
The pearls of this world while I ’m treading
In dust, where as pebbles they lie,
I seek the rich pearl, that is shedding
Its lustre so pure from on high.

For pains my torn spirit is feeling,
No balsam from earth it receives:
I go to the tree, that hath healing
To drop on my wounds from its leaves.
A child that is weary with roaming,
Returning in gladness to see
A home and a parent, I ’m coming —
My Father, I hasten to thee!

Rise in thy solemn grandeur, calm and slow,
As well befits thy purpose and thy place:
Great Speaker! rise, not suddenly, to show
The earth forever sacred at thy base.

Strong as the rocky frame-work of the globe,
Proportioned fair, in altitude sublime,
With freedom’s glory round thee as a robe,
Rise gently – then defy the power of time.

To future ages, from thy lofty site,
Speak in thy mighty eloquence, and tell
That where thou art, on Bunker’s hallowed height,
Our Warren and his valiant brethren fell.

Say, it was here the vital current flowed,
Purpling the turf, amid the mortal strife
For man’s great birthright, from the breasts, that glowed
With love of country, more than love of life.

Thou hast thy growth of blood, that, gushing warm
From patriot bosoms, set their spirits free:
All, who behold, shall venerate thy form,
And bow before thy genius, Liberty.

Here fell the hero and his brave compeers,
Who fought and died to break a people’s chain:
The place is sacred to Columbia’s tears.
Poured o’er the victims for a nation slain.

Yet from her starry brow a glory streams,
Turning to gems those holy drops of grief,
As after evening showers, the morn’s clear beams
Show diamonds hung on grass, and flower and leaf.

Upright and firm, as were the patriot souls,
That from thy native spot arose to God,
Stand thou and hold, long as our planet rolls,
This last high place by Freedom’s martyrs trod.

Let thy majestic shadow walk the ground,
Calm as the sun, and constant as his light;
And by the moon, amid the dews, be found
The sentinel, who guards it through the night.

And may the air around thee ever be
To heaven-born Liberty as vital breath;
But, like the breeze that sweeps the Upas tree,
To Bondage and Oppression certain death!

A beauteous prospect spreads for thy survey;
City and dome, and spire look up to thee:
The solemn forest and the mountains gray
Stand distant to salute thy majesty.

And ocean, in his numbers deep and strong,
While the bright shore beneath thy ken he laves,
Will sing to thee an everlasting song
Of freedom, with his never-conquered waves.

Rise then, and stand unshaken, till the skies
Above thee are about to pass away;
But, when the dead around thee are to rise,
Melt in the burning splendors of the day!

For then will He, “whose right it is to reign,”
Who hath on earth a kingdom pure to save,
Come with his angels, calling up the slain
To freedom, and annihilate the grave.

Alone I walked the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand:
I stooped, and wrote upon the sand
My name – the year – the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast:
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my lines away.

And so, methought, ’t will shortly be
With every mark on earth from me;
A wave of dark oblivion’s sea
Will sweep across the place,
Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of time, and been to be no more,
Of me – my day – the name I bore,
To leave nor track, nor trace.

And yet, with Him, who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in his hands,
I know a lasting record stands,
Inscribed against my name,
Of all, this mortal part has wrought;
Of all, this thinking soul has thought;
And from these fleeting moments caught
For glory, or for shame.