Hannah Gould - Mother's Dream and Other Poems

The moon, now fading in the occident,
Is not so mild, so heavenly fair as he.
The sun, just rising in the orient,
Hath less of glory than in him we see.

Nature, that, for his death and burial,
Hath put on darkness, as a mourning weed,
Arrayed in light as for a festival,
Proclaims afar, “The Lord is risen indeed!”

May I in thy likeness, my Saviour, awake,
And rise, a fair image of thee;
Then I shall be satisfied, when I can break
This prison of clay, and be free.

Can I but come forth to eternity’s light,
With thy perfect features to shine,
In raiment unsullied from time’s dreary night,
What honor and joy will be mine!

Yes, I shall be satisfied then to have cast
The shadows of nature all by —
When, darkness and dust from the dull eyelid past,
My soul sees with full-opened eye.

How fain would I know the great morn drawing near,
When earth’s dreamy visions shall fade,
If I in thy semblance indeed may appear,
And stand in thy beauty arrayed!

To see thee in glory, O Lord, as thou art,
From this mortal, perishing clay
My spirit immortal, in peace would depart,
And, joyous, mount up her bright way.

When on thine own image in me thou hast smiled,
In thy holy mansion, and when
Thy fatherly arms have encircled thy child,
O I shall be satisfied then!

Thou trembling, pure, and holy thing!
What skill from ocean’s depths can bring,
Or toil from out the mine —
What monarch in his diadem,
Or glittering garb, produce a gem,
Whose brightness equals thine?

Thy source is deeper than the caves
Of riven rock, or opening waves,
Invisible as air:
And, though the angel throng above
Behold thee with delight and love,
They ne’er can have thee there.

Nor change, nor age thy sheen can dim;
Thou ’rt now unstained as when with him,
Who dared, in olden time,
Thrice his dear, suffering Lord deny;
Then, melted at the Saviour’s eye,
And paid thee for his crime.

Called from the treasures of the soul
By power divine, when thou dost roll
Forth from the mourner’s eye,
Thy wearer thou dost then proclaim
The heir of life, who has his name
Writ in the Book on high.

Thou art a pearl, that all may own,
And when thy matchless worth is known
To those, who wear thee here,
They will be changed, and shall behold
The shining gates of heaven unfold,
Bright Penitential Tear!

He reigns on high, a glorious King,
In ocean, earth, and air;
He moves and governs every thing,
For God is every where.

The waters at his bidding flow,
The mountain and its flower
Their majesty and beauty show,
As traces of his power.

The lilies by the meadow rills
Are leaning on his hand;
And so the cedar of the hills,
The palm and olive stand.

He formed the birds, that sport along
On light and brilliant wing;
And tuned them with the voice of song
And joy his praise to sing.

This earth is ours, so rich and fair
From him, who made it thus —
Who sends his angels down with care
To minister to us.

The rainbow, with its beauteous dies,
A pledge to man, is lent
By him, who spreads the shining skies
Around him, “as a tent.”

The heavens, my child, are full of him!
Yon radiant sun above
Is but an image, cold and dim,
Of his great power and love.

He placed that glorious orb on high,
In splendor there to roll,
To warm the world, to light the eye;
He lights and warms the soul.

And lest the night with sable shade
That azure vault should mar,
He moved his finger there, and made,
At every touch, a star.

With these the moon, his beaming gift,
Here lets her lustre fall,
Our thoughts to win, our hearts to lift
To him, who gave them all.

And he is ours – that Holy One,
Our Father, Guide, and Friend;
In ways untravelled by the sun,
In love that ne’er shall end.

’T is sweet to worship him below,
With his approving eye
To mark the way, our spirits go
To seek his face on high.

Awake, O ye nations, and, shaking
The slumber of death from your eyes,
Behold the fair morn in its breaking,
The Sun of all glory arise.

He comes, mist and dimness dispelling;
The shadows and clouds flee away:
Ho! all, that in darkness are dwelling,
Spring up, and rejoice in the day!

Ye dying, life’s waters revealing,
He ’ll show you to fountain and streams:
Ye wounded, for you he brings healing;
Come out and repose in his beams.

Come, all ye disconsolate, hailing
Your King in his beauty and might;
His raiment mount Ebal is veiling;
Mount Gerizim shines with his light.

O praise him, ye weary, in wonder
To feel your hard burdens unbound!
Ye captives, your bars fall asunder;
With shoutings leap forth at the sound.

Your names on his breastplate he ’s wearing;
They ’re set as the seal of his ring;
Ye nations, your highways preparing,
Receive, and be glad in your King!

Come, let ’s go back, my brother,
And, by our father’s well,
Sit down beside each other,
Life’s little dreams to tell.

For there we played together,
In childhood’s sunny hours;
Before life’s stormy weather
Had killed its morning flowers.

And since no draught we ’ve tasted,
Its weary journey through,
As we so far have hasted,
Like that our father drew;

I feel, as at a mountain,
I cannot pass nor climb,
Till from that distant fountain
I drink, as in my prime.

My spirit’s longing, thirsting,
No waters else can quell;
My heart seems near to bursting
To reach that good old well.

Though all be changed around it,
And though so changed are we,
Just where our father found it,
That pure well spring will be.

In earth, when deeply going,
He reached and smote the rock;
He set its fount to flowing —
It opened at his knock.

The way, he smoothed and stoned it,
A close, round, shadowy cell;
Whoever since has owned it,
It is our father’s well!

His prattling son and daughter,
With each an infant’s cup,
We waited for the water,
His steady hand drew up.