Mother's Dream and Other Poems. Gould Hannah Flagg

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      I caught a bird: She flitted by,

      So near my window lifted high,

      She softly ventured in, to spy

      What 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 tree

      Before 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 feet

      Against 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 look

      Of helplessness and fear;

      Till quick I spread my hand, to show,

      I caught her but to let her go;

      And I, perhaps, may never know

      A dearer moment here.

      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.

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