Mother's Dream and Other Poems

Hannah Flagg Gould

Mother's Dream and Other Poems

BLOWING BUBBLES

Half our sorrows, half our troubles,Making head and heart to ache,Are the fruit of blowing bubbles,Bright to view, but quick to break.All have played the child imbecile,Breathing hard to swell the sidesOf a shining, fluid vessel,Frailer than the air it rides.From the infant’s cradle rising,All the bubble mania show,Oft our richest wealth comprisingIn the bubbles that we blow.Brilliant, buoyant, upward going,Pleased, we mark them in their flight,Every hue of iris showing,As they glance along the light.Little castles, high and airy,With their crystal walls so thin,Each presents the wicked fairy,Vanity, enthroned within!But when two have struck together,What of either do we find?Not so much as one gay featherFlying Hope has left behind!Still the world are busy, blowing,Every one, some empty ball;So the seeds of mischief sowing,Where, to burst, the bubbles fall.Nor for self alone to gather,Is our evil harvest found;Oft, with pipe and cup, we ratherStep upon our neighbor’s ground.Thus, amusing one another,While the glistening playthings rise,We may doom a friend or brotherTo a life of care and sighs.Do you doubt my simple story?I can point a thousand waysWhere this bubble-making gloryHas in darkness hid its rays!Yet we ’ll spare a slight confusionCaused the world by giving names;Since a right to some delusionEvery one from nature claims!

INFANT FAITH

Radiant with his spirit’s lightWas the little beauteous child,Sporting round a fountain bright,Playing through the flowerets wild.Where they grow he lightly stepped,Cautious not a leaf to crush;Then about the fount he leaped,Shouting at its merry gush.While the sparkling waters welled,Laughing as they bubbled up,In his lily hands he held,Closely clasped, a silver cup.Now he put it forth to fill;Then he bore it to the flowers,Through his fingers there to spillWhat it held, in mimic showers.“Open, pretty buds,” said he,“Open to the air and sun;So, to-morrow I may seeWhat my rain to-day has done.“Yes, you will, you will, I know,For the drink I give you now,Burst your little cups, and blow,When I’m gone, and can’t tell how!“Oh! I wish I could but seeHow God’s finger touches you,When your sides unclasp, and free,Let your leaves and odors through.“I would watch you all the night,Nor in darkness be afraid,Only once to see arightHow a beauteous flower is made.“Now remember! I shall comeIn the morning from my bed,Here to find among you someWith your brightest colors spread!”To his buds he hastened out,At the dewy morning hour,Crying, with a joyous shout,“God has made of each a flower!”Precious must the ready faithOf the little children be,In the sight of Him, who saith,“Suffer them to come to me.”Answered, by the smile of heaven,Is the infant’s offering found,Though “a cup of water given,”Even to the thirsty ground.

PATTY PROUD

The figure before you is Miss Patty Proud:Her feelings are lowery, her frown like a cloud;Because proud Miss Patty can hardly endureTo come near the lowly abode of the poor.She fears the plain floor of the humble will spoilHer silk shoes and hose, and her skirt-bottom soil;And so she goes winching; and holds up her dressSo high, it were well if her heels would show less.But when she walks through the fine streets of the town,She puts on fine airs, and displays her rich gown;Till some, whom she passes, will think of the birdRenowned for gay feathers, whose name you have heard.In thought she is trifling – in manner as vainAs that silly fowl, taking pride in his train;And none, who have marked her, will need to be toldThat she has a heart hard, and haughty, and cold.I saw, when she met some poor children one day,Who asked her for alms, she turned frowning away;And told them, “Poor people must work, to be fed,And not trouble ladies, to help them to bread.”And just as the sad little mendicants said,Their mother was dying, their father was dead,She entered a store, with a smooth, smiling face,To lay out her purse in gay ribbons and lace.I saw her curl up her sour lip in disdain,Because Ellen Pitiful picked up the cane,A feeble old man had let fall in the sand,And placed it again in his tremulous hand.But little does haughty Miss Patty suppose,Of all, whom she visits, that any one knowsHow stern she can look, when she ’s out of their sight,And fret at the servants, if all is not right.At home, she ’s unyielding, and sullen, and cross:Her friends, when she ’s absent, esteem it no loss;And some, where she visits, in secret confess,That they love her no more, though they dread her much less.The truth is, Miss Patty, when young, never triedTo govern her temper, or conquer her pride.The passions, unchecked in the heart of the child,Like weeds in a garden neglected, ran wild.They grew with her growth, with her strength became strong:Her head, not then righted, has ever been wrong;And so she would never submit to be toldOf faults, by long habit made stubborn and bold.And now, among all my young friends, is there one, —A fair little girl is there under the sun,Who ’d rise to a woman, and have it allowedThat she is a likeness of Miss Patty Proud?

I CAUGHT A BIRD

I caught a bird: She flitted by,So near my window lifted high,She softly ventured in, to spyWhat I might be about:And then, a little wildered thing,Like many a one without a wing,She fluttered, struck, and seemed to sing,“Alas! I can’t get out.”She saw her kindred on the treeBefore her, sporting light and free;But felt a power, she could not see,Repel and hold her back.In vain her beak, and breast, and feetAgainst the crystal pane were beat:She could not break the clear deceit,Nor find her airy track.The pretty wanderer then I took;And felt her frame with terror shook:She gave the sad and piteous lookOf helplessness and fear;Till quick I spread my hand, to show,I caught her but to let her go;And I, perhaps, may never knowA dearer moment here.She piped a short and sweet adieu,As, humming on the air, she threwHer brilliant, buoyant wing, and flewAway from fear and me:But, ere the hour of setting sun,That little constant, grateful one,Returning, had her hymn begunIn our old rustling tree.Now do not take the fatal aim,My tender bird to kill, or maim;Nor let the fatal shot proclaimHer 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!

THE FLOWER OF SHELLS AND SILVER WIRE

TO – I sought a meet gift, it might please thee to wearAmong 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 nowI 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 mindThe friend, by whose hand its pure parts were combined;But, oftener, that Friend, in whose hand was the skillThe earth and the seas with their treasures to fill!

THE LITTLE BLIND BOY

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 delightA 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!

THE SALE OF THE WATER-LILY

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 boreThe signs of times within,That seemed to say but little moreThan, “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 cheerThe 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 leadHis little sisters out,To pick wild berries on the mead,And fish the brook for trout.He stirred his thoughts for ways to earnSome little gain; and hence,Contrived the silver pond to turn,In part, to silver pence.He found the lilies blooming thereSo 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 soldWas ready on the spot.He ’d stand beside the way, and holdHis treasures up to show,That looked like yellow stars of goldJust 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 clungUpon 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 faceSome 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 threwThe 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 storeWould 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 spurnedThe faces of the poor;And found that all he gave returnedIn blessing rich and sure.The God, who, by the lily-pond,Had drawn his heart above,In after life preserved the bondOf grateful, holy love.

THE SILVER BIRDSNEST

We were shown a beautiful specimen of the ingenuity of birds, a few days since, by Dr. Cook, of this borough. It was a birdsnest made entirely of silver wires, beautifully woven together. The nest was found on a sycamore tree, on the Condorus, by Dr. Francis Beard, of York county. It was the nest of a hanging-bird; and the material was probably obtained from a soldier’s epaulet, which it had found.

Westchester Village Record.Spring of 1838.A stranded soldier’s epaulet,The waters cast ashore,A little winged rover met,And eyed it o’er and o’er.The silver bright so pleased her sight,On that lone, idle vest,She knew not why she should denyHerself a silver nest.The shining wire she pecked and twirled;Then bore it to her bough,Where, on a flowery twig ’t was curled —The bird can show you how: —But, when enough of that bright stuffThe cunning builder boreHer house to make, she would not take,Nor did she covet more.And when the little artisan,While neither pride nor guiltHad entered in her pretty plan,Her resting-place had built;With here and there a plume to spare,About her own light form,Of these, inlaid with skill, she madeA lining soft and warm.But, do you think the tender broodShe fondled there, and fed,Were prouder, when they understoodThe sheen about their bed?Do you suppose they ever roseOf higher powers possessed,Because they knew they peeped and grewWithin a silver nest?

THE QUAKER FLOWER

A TRIFOLIUM FROM THE GRAVE OF PENNI have a little Quaker flower,That hath a kind of spirit powerTo hold me captive, hour by hour,In pleasant musing lost;’T was plucked for me in distant land,And by another’s friendly hand,From turf where I may never stand;Then yon wild ocean crossed.A modest foreigner it came,Bearing a sweet, but humble name;Yet worthy of a glorious fameAmong the sons of men;For O the pretty stranger grew:It drank the ether and the dew,And from light received its hueUpon the grave of Penn!It sprang from out that hallowed ground,Unclosed its eye, and smiled around,Upon the verdure of the mound,Where William’s ashes rest;Where low the dust in quiet liesOf him, among the good and wiseOn earth, so meek, and in the skiesSo high among the blest.And had my flower a living root,Or seed wherefrom a germ might shootFor one young plant to be the fruitOf that small vital part,Fair Penn-Sylvania, it should be,My friendly offering made to thee —Set, to thy father’s memory,On thy kind Quaker heart.But, ah! my precious flower is dead:The snow-white sheet beneath its head,And on its tender bosom spread,Shows that its life is o’er:And though each floweret of the gem,And every leaf, is on the stem,I cannot spare thee one of them,Because there ’ll grow no more.I therefore bid my fancy weaveThis simple wreath, which thou ’lt receiveIn lieu thereof; and thence believeMy fervent wish to beThat Heaven, to overflowing still,With purest bliss thy cup may fill,And guard thee safe from every ill,Whilst thou rememberest me!

THE HUMMING-BIRD’S ANGER

“Small as the humming-bird is, it has great courage and violent passions. If it find a flower that has been deprived of its honey, it will pluck it off, throw it on the ground, and sometimes tear it to pieces.”

Buffon.On light little wings, as the humming-birds fly,With plumes many-hued as the bow of the sky,Suspended in ether, they shine in the light,As jewels of nature, high-finished and bright.Their delicate forms are so buoyant and small,They hang o’er the flowers, as too airy to fall,Upborne on their beautiful pinions, that seemLike glittering vapor, or parts of a dream.The humming-bird feeds upon honey, and so,Of course, ’t is a sweet little creature, you know:But sweet little creatures have sometimes, they say,A great deal that ’s bitter or sour to betray.And often the humming-bird’s delicate breastIs found of a very high temper possessed:Such essence of anger within it is pent,’T would burst, did no safety-valve give it a vent.Displeased, it will seem a bright vial of wrath,Uncorked by its heat the offender to scath;And taking occasion to let off its ire,’T is startling to witness how high it will fire.A humming-bird once o’er a trumpet-flower hung,And darted that sharp little member, the tongue,At once through the tube to its cell for the sweetIt felt, at the bottom, most certain to meet.But, finding that some other child of the air,To rifle the store, had already been there,And no drop of honey for her to draw up,Her vengeance was poured on the destitute cup.She flew in a passion that heightened her power,And, cuffing and shaking the innocent flower,Its tender corolla in shred after shredShe hastily stripped, then she snapped off its head.A delicate ruin on earth as it lay,That bright little fury went humming away,With gossamer softness, and fair to the eye,Like some living brilliant just dropped from the sky.And since, when that curious bird I beholdArrayed in rich colors, and dusted with gold,I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite,She has in reserve, though they ’re kept out of sight.These two-footed, beautiful, passionate things,If plumeless or plumy, without or with wings,Should go to the glass, or the painter, and sitWhen anger is just at the height of its fit.

THE SABBATH

Day of days, the dearest, best,Hallowed by Jehovah’s rest!When his six-days’ work was done,Holy rose the seventh sun.When creation’s pillars stood,And the Lord pronounced them good,Morning stars together sang —Heaven with Sabbath praises rang.Earth in pristine beauty shone,Like a gem, before his throne,While he marked thee, as his claim —And he sealed thee with his name.Choice of God, thou blessed day!At thy dawn the grave gave wayTo the power of him within,Who had, sinless, bled for sin.Thine the radiance to illumeFirst, for man, the dismal tomb,When its bars their weakness owned,There revealing death dethroned.Then the Sun of righteousnessRose, a darkened world to bless,Bringing up from mortal night,Immortality and light.Day of glory! day of power!Sacred be thine ev’ry hour!Emblem, earnest of the restThat remaineth for the blest!When at last it shall appearHow they loved and kept thee here,To a temple in the skies,Fair, eternal, they shall rise.Not a sigh of grief or careShall mingle with their praises there;Then their sweet reward shall beAn eternity of thee.

THE DEPARTING SPIRIT

Hush! let the sigh in escaping be stopped:Be the dim chamber all silently trod!Let not the tear, that is rounded, be dropt!Oh! ’t is a spirit returning to God!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.

SONNET

Spare, ruthless fowler, spareThat 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 foodProvided 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.

FATHER, HEAR!

Thou, whose power assumes the form,Now, of this wild wintry storm,Let it still in mercy beShown 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 sweepO’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 hostArmed for battle, bar the coast;For the coming bark appear!Guide her! save her! Father, hear!

THE PILGRIM’S WAY SONG

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 bloomingIn beauty unfading above,The wings of the angels perfuming,Who fly down on errands of love.Of earth’s shallow waters the drinkingIs powerless my thirst to allay;Their taste is of tears, while we ’re sinkingBeside 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 dwellingMakes 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 treadingIn dust, where as pebbles they lie,I seek the rich pearl, that is sheddingIts 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 healingTo drop on my wounds from its leaves.A child that is weary with roaming,Returning in gladness to seeA home and a parent, I ’m coming —My Father, I hasten to thee!

THE RISING MONUMENT

Rise in thy solemn grandeur, calm and slow,As well befits thy purpose and thy place:Great Speaker! rise, not suddenly, to showThe 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 tellThat 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 strifeFor man’s great birthright, from the breasts, that glowedWith love of country, more than love of life.Thou hast thy growth of blood, that, gushing warmFrom 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 beamsShow 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 foundThe sentinel, who guards it through the night.And may the air around thee ever beTo 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 grayStand 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 songOf freedom, with his never-conquered waves.Rise then, and stand unshaken, till the skiesAbove 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 slainTo freedom, and annihilate the grave.

A NAME IN THE SAND

Alone I walked the ocean strand;A pearly shell was in my hand:I stooped, and wrote upon the sandMy 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 beWith every mark on earth from me;A wave of dark oblivion’s seaWill sweep across the place,Where I have trod the sandy shoreOf 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 caughtFor glory, or for shame.

THE CHILD OF A YEAR AND A DAY

To grief the night-hours keeping,A mournful mother layUpon her pillow, weeping —Her babe had passed away.When she had clasped her treasureA year and yet a day,Of time ’t was all its measure —’T was gone, like morning’s ray!The jewel, Heaven had shown her,Of worth surpassing gold,Was lent her, by its Owner —’T was never earth’s to hold.Then, fondly hovering o’er her,A bright young angel hung;And warm the love it bore her,And sweet the song it sung:“O mother, why this weeping?Let all thy sorrow cease:My infant form is sleeping,Where nought can break its peace.“And he, who once was blessingSuch little children here,My spirit now possessing,Will hold me ever dear.“I never knew the dreadingOf death’s all-conquering blow;My mortal raiment shedding,I rose above the foe.“Where sickness cannot pain me —Where comes nor grief nor night —Where sin shall never stain me,I dwell, a child of light.“While many a pilgrim hoaryTreads long earth’s weary way,I have eternal gloryFor one short year and day.”Yet that sweet angel singingIts mother could not hear,For grief her heart was wringing —She ’d but a mortal ear.She could not see the beamingOf his celestial crown;For fast her tears were streaming;Her soul to dust bowed down.A voice from heaven then fallingIn soothing tones to her,As of a Father, calling,Revealed the Comforter.And, lifting up her lowlyAnd sorrow-laden eye,She saw the King all holyUpon the throne Most High.Where shining hosts were pouringTheir praises forth to Him,She saw her child adoring,Amid the Seraphim.