Part 9

And wherefore did they whip thee so, To give thy voice this sound of wo, Which comes so plaintively to show That they have used thee ill? Didst thou go through the woods alone, Where brambly snares had thickly grown When thou wast taught thy piteous tone And story, "Whip-poor-will?"

There have they made thee all the day In silence hide thyself away, To lose the light, the flash, the play Of sun, and fount, and rill? And didst thou now steal out, afraid Of midnight in the coppice shade, That here thy tender plaint is made Again, sad Whip-poor-will?

The trembling stars and lunar gleam, That fitful in the thicket beam, Perhaps would make poor Willie dream His foes were round him still. And in the copse-wood, dark and deep, A waving flower, or leaflet's sweep Might startle thee, in troubled sleep To murmur, "Whip-poor-will!"

My bird, there 's mystery in thy strain-- A power I might resist in vain, With mournful joy--with pleasing pain My inmost soul to thrill. 'T is memory stirs to wet my eye By waking shades of days gone by, When first, a child, I heard the cry So solemn, "Whip-poor-will."

I call thee bird, yet thou may'st be A spirit! for I cannot see-- I ne'er could catch a glimpse of thee; And undiscovered still The vision form, that might appear, Wert thou to sight revealed as clear, As is thy presence to mine ear, Mysterious Whip-poor-will.

THE AUTUMN ROSE-BUD.

Come out, pretty Rose-Bud, my lone, timid one! Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun; For little he does, in these dull autumn hours, At height'ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers.

His beams, on thy tender young cheek as he plays, Will give it a blush that no other can raise; Thy fine silken petals they 'll softly unfold, And fill their pure centre with spices and gold.

I would not instruct thee in coveting wealth; But beauty, we know, is the offspring of health; And health, the fair daughter of freedom, is bright With feasting on breezes, and drinking the light.

Then come, pretty bud; from thy covert look out, And see what the glad, golden sun is about: His shafts, should they strike thee, will only impart A grace to thy form, and a sweet to thy heart.

TO L. A. E. ON HER WEDDING-DAY.

That I _will_ "be near" on thy "bridal day"-- Be with thee before we are ten hours older, This hasty messenger comes to say, And bringing its witness,--a pearly _folder_.

And this, perhaps, as a pointed sign, By the light upon Hymen's altar burning, May signify, to a heart like thine, "What a leaf to-day in thy life is turning!"

May the lines for thy future reading there, With no sad characters dark or frowning, In every letter be bright and fair, To thee and to him thou to-day art crowning.

Accept the token, and let it prove, As long as thou hence shalt remain its owner, When thou must be at a far remove From her, memorial of the donor.

Thou 'lt see engraved on its handle-part, The form of a pen, with its top of feather-- A type of the wings that heart and heart May find, when absent, to fly together.

I send thee an opening, thornless rose, Harmless and soft as the peaceful turtle; With an emerald sprig from a branch that grows On the single stalk of my true green myrtle.

I bound them about with a silver thread; But, ere thy hand is the cord untwining, The rose will have drooped, or its leaves be shed, While the myrtle still is freshly shining.

But I _will_ "be near" in thy bridal hour, This, "Wednesday, evening, at half past seven," And give at the nuptials my holier dower,-- A prayer for a smile on them from Heaven.

TO MRS. H. F. L.

To think of thee, my Hannah-- To sit and think of thee, Is to my heart like manna, Or balsam from the tree.

For, first, its tendrils feeding, It gives them strength to cling; And then, if pained or bleeding, It soothes the wound or sting.

To thine, a fount of feeling The warmest and the best, 'T is sweet to seem revealing The secrets of my breast.

Of half its care and trouble, My bosom, thus beguiled, Feels every joy is double, When on it thou hast smiled.

'T is dark and stormy weather-- Our first October day; But we are here together, Though thou art far away.

For still I feel thee near me-- I see thy soft black eye-- I fancy thou canst hear me, And I thy sweet reply.

And yet, my friend, my dearest, This moment, where art thou? What envied eye is nearest, To look upon thee now?

Is thine own Hannah present, In spirit, still with thee? And dost thou find it pleasant To feel alone with me?

Then we are never parted! Nor distance, place, nor scene, The whole and faithful-hearted Shall ever come between.

And when earth's changeful weather, Its joys and sorrows cease, O may we dwell together In deathless love and peace!

MUSIC.

Music? A blessed angel! She was born Within the palace of the King of kings-- A favorite near his throne. In that glad child Of Love and Joy, he made their spirits one; And her, the heir to everlasting life! When his bright hosts would give him highest praise, They send her forward with her dulcet voice, To pour their holy rapture in his ear. When the young earth to being started forth, Music lay sleeping in a bower of heaven. A crystal fountain, close beside her, gushed With living waters; and the sparkling cup For her pure draught, stood on its emerald brink. While o'er her brow a tender halo shone, Kissed by the nodding buds, her head reclined Upon a flowery pillow. At her ear, The soft leaves whispered. On her half-closed lips The gentle air strewed spices, wooing them. Dropped o'er its radiant orb, the long-fringed lid Veiled the deep inspiration of her eye; But on her cheek the rose-tint came and went, At the quick pulse that fluttered in her breast, And spoke a wakeful spirit. In her sleep, With one fair hand thrown o'er its silent strings, Close to her heart she clasped her golden lyre, To slumber with her, while she fondly dreamed Of the sweet uses she might make of it To numbers yet untried. When, suddenly, A shout of joy from all the sons of God, Rang through his courts: and then the thrilling call, "Wake! sister Music, wake, and hail with us, A new-created sphere!" She woke! She rose-- She moved among the morning stars, and gave The birth-song of a world. Our infant globe, With life's first pulse, rolled in its ether bed, Robed with the sunlight, mantled by the moon, Or tenderly embraced by stellar rays: Death, with his pale, cold finger, had not touched Its beauty then. No stain of guilt was here, And so, no cloud of sorrow cast a shade, Or rained its bitter drops on fruit or flower. As earth, on every side, shone fair to heaven, Not knowing yet whereto she was ordained, Music, from her celestial walks looked down, And thought, how sweetly she could wake the hills, Sing through the silent forests--in the vales-- Beside the silver waters pour her sounds; And multiply her numbers by the rocks! She longed to give it voice to speak to God; And, being told of her blest ministry, Bathed in a flood of glory, till her wings Dripped with effulgence, as they spread, and poised, And passed the pearly gates in earthward flight. Made viewless by the circumambient air, And scattering voices to its feathered tribes, As down she hastened to the shining sphere, The happy angel reached the beauteous earth. At her electric touch, young nature smiled, And kindled into rapture; then broke forth With thousand, thousand songs. The green turf woke; The sea-shells hummed along the vocal shore, The busy bee, upon his honeyed flower. Osier and reed became Eolian lyres. Trees bore sweet minstrels; while rock, hill, and dell Sang to each other in a joyous round. MAN, that mysterious instrument of God, When the warm soul of new-descended power Breathed on his heart-strings, lifted up his voice, Chanting, "JEHOVAH!" Since that blessed hour, While still her home is heaven, Music has ne'er This darkened world forsaken. She delights, Though man may lose, or keep the paths of peace, To soothe, to cheer, to light and warm his heart; And lends her wings to waft it to the skies. She throws a lustre o'er Devotion's face-- Drinks off the tear from Sorrow's languid eye-- Tames wild Despair--brings Hope a brighter bloom-- Lulls Hate to rest--Love's ruffled bosom smooths; Pours honey into many a bitter cup; And often gives the black and heavy hour A downy breast and pinions tipped with light. She steals all balmy through the prisoner's grates, Making that sad one half forget their use. With holy spell she binds the exile's heart, And pours her oil upon its hidden wounds. Kings are her lovers--cottagers her loves: The hero and the pilgrim walk with her. Her voice is sweet by cradled infancy, And from the pillow of the dying saint, When a glad spirit borrows her light wings To practise for the skies, ere it unfolds Its own, and breaks its tenure to the clay. True, by man's wanderings for his tempter's lure, Music is often drawn to scenes unmeet For purity like hers; and made to bear Unhallowed burdens; or, to join in rites To turpitude in fellest places held. Yet, like the sun, whose beaming vesture, trailed O'er all things staining, still defies a stain; And is at night withdrawn, and girded up, Warm and untarnished for the morning skies-- She comes unsullied from her baser walks, Sighs at the darkness, guilt and wo of earth; Breathes Zion's air, and, warmed with heavenly fire, Mounts to her glorious home! 'T was she, who bore The first grand offering of the free, on high, When to the shore, through Egypt's solemn sea, The franchised Hebrews passed with feet dry-shod, And p├Žans gave to their Deliverer there. She cheered the wanderers on; and when they crossed Over old Jordan, to the strong-armed foe, Still she was with them; and her single breath Laid the proud Painim's city-walls in dust! In native light, she walked Judea's hills, And sipped the dew of Hermon from its flower Before the Sun of righteousness arose. The Prophet chose her to unseal his lips, Ere God spake through them; and the Prophetess, To lift the heart's pure gift from her's to Heaven. When Israel's king was troubled, her soft hand Put close, but gently, to his gloomy breast, Reached the dark spirit there, and laid it still, Bound by the chords a shepherd minstrel swept. And since, her countless thousands she has brought To heaven's mild kingdom, happy captives led, By those sweet glowing strings of David's lyre. But oh! her richest, dearest notes to man, In strains aerial over Bethlehem poured, When HE, whose brightness is the light of heaven, To earth descending for a mortal's form, Laid by his glory, save one radiant mark, That moved through space, and o'er the infant hung, He summoned Music to attend him here, Announcing peace below! He called her, too, To sweeten that sad supper, and to twine Her mantle round him, and his few, grieved friends To join their mournful spirits with the hymn, Ere to the Mount of Olives he went out So sorrowful. And now, his blessed word, A sacred pledge, is left to dying man, Then at his second coming in his power, Music shall still be with him; and her voice Sound through the tombs and wake the dead to life!

Transcriber's Notes

Original spelling has been retained except in the following case: In the poem "The Pilgrim's Way Song" on page 29 "thrist" has been corrected to "thirst" (To drink, and to thirst never more.) The deviation between some items in the table of contents and the actual headings have also been retained.

End of Project Gutenberg's Mother's Dream and Other Poems, by Hannah F. Gould