Mother's Dream and Other Poems. Gould Hannah Flagg

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      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.

      When we had paused and listened,

      Till down the bucket dashed,

      O how it, rising, glistened,

      And to the sunlight flashed!

      And since that moment, never

      Has that cool deep been dry;

      Its fount is living ever,

      While man and seasons die.

      Around its mouth is growing

      The moss of many a year;

      But from its heart is flowing

      The water sweet and clear.

      Fond memory near it lingers,

      And, like a happy child,

      She plucks, with busy fingers,

      And wreathes the roses wild.

      Yet many a lip, whose burning

      Its limpid drops allayed,

      Has since, to ashes turning,

      Been veiled in silent shade.

      Still we are here, and telling

      About our infant play;

      Where that free spring is welling,

      So true, and far away.

      But O! the change, my brother!

      Our father’s head is hoar;

      The tender name of mother

      Is ours to call no more.

      And now, around thee gather

      Such little ones as we

      Were then, beside our father,

      And look to theirs in thee.

      While fast our years are wasting,

      Their numbers none can tell;

      So let us hence be hasting

      To find our Father’s well.

      Come, we will speed us thither,

      And from its mossy brink,

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