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 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
54
THE HALF-MAST FLAG.
How slow yon bark moves o'er the trembling wave,
While her low flag the sighing breezes sweep!
She comes, a mourner, from the new-made grave
Of him, whom she has buried in the deep.
While her low flag the sighing breezes sweep!
She comes, a mourner, from the new-made grave
Of him, whom she has buried in the deep.
With sorrow heavy laden, she appears;
Beneath its weight must many a spirit bend!
For hope's last ray she comes to quench in tears
At once, for parent, brother, sister, friend.
Beneath its weight must many a spirit bend!
For hope's last ray she comes to quench in tears
At once, for parent, brother, sister, friend.
Their loved one she has left upon her way!—
Low she has laid him in an ocean tomb,
With wat'ry mountains o'er his youthful clay,
Where human sight shall never pierce the gloom.
Low she has laid him in an ocean tomb,
With wat'ry mountains o'er his youthful clay,
Where human sight shall never pierce the gloom.
To eyes that oft have sought her coming sail,
That they again might rest with joy on him,
Her silent signal tells the fearful tale,
While inward anguish turns their vision dim.
That they again might rest with joy on him,
Her silent signal tells the fearful tale,
While inward anguish turns their vision dim.
Edwin! can virtue, promise, early worth,
And warm affection, such as thine depart?
Can one like thee be summoned from the earth,
And yet, the living lay it not to heart?
And warm affection, such as thine depart?
Can one like thee be summoned from the earth,
And yet, the living lay it not to heart?
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Oh! there is sadness where thy face was seen,
And lamentation where thy voice was known,
From those who feel the gate of death between
Thy bright, immortal spirit, and their own.
And lamentation where thy voice was known,
From those who feel the gate of death between
Thy bright, immortal spirit, and their own.
And, like the wailing surges of the sea,
That o'er thy sleeping clay, unceasing roll,
Sorrow's dark waves, to those who mourn for thee,
Rise in their might, to overwhelm the soul.
That o'er thy sleeping clay, unceasing roll,
Sorrow's dark waves, to those who mourn for thee,
Rise in their might, to overwhelm the soul.
Yet, woe is but for them. For thee, above
Is joy unmingled, which the blessed know!
Thy voice is tuned to praise eternal love,
While sighs and sadness fill thy place below.
Is joy unmingled, which the blessed know!
Thy voice is tuned to praise eternal love,
While sighs and sadness fill thy place below.
Long have the bending angels beckoned thee
To quit this thorny vale and come on high;
Thy years on earth were few—and thou art free
From pain, from care, and every mortal tie!
To quit this thorny vale and come on high;
Thy years on earth were few—and thou art free
From pain, from care, and every mortal tie!
Yes—thou hast crossed the cold and swelling tide
Of Jordan, borne upon thy Saviour's breast.
Thou now art safe, where every tear is dried,
Where pain is ended, and the weary rest.
Of Jordan, borne upon thy Saviour's breast.
Thou now art safe, where every tear is dried,
Where pain is ended, and the weary rest.
For He, who bids the stormy billows sleep,
Placed his soft hand beneath thy sinking head;
He, thy best Friend, received, upon the deep,
His own redeemed, from off thy dying bed.
Placed his soft hand beneath thy sinking head;
He, thy best Friend, received, upon the deep,
His own redeemed, from off thy dying bed.
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And shall we wish thy young and blessed feet
Back from the holy hills they now have trod?
Or hold our own prepared, that we may meet
Thy sainted spirit in its home with God?
Back from the holy hills they now have trod?
Or hold our own prepared, that we may meet
Thy sainted spirit in its home with God?
He is Eternal Wisdom—we are dust;
And meekly at his footstool may we dwell!
His hand lies heavy on us—yet we trust
In him alone, who “doeth all things well!”
And meekly at his footstool may we dwell!
His hand lies heavy on us—yet we trust
In him alone, who “doeth all things well!”
Edwin! beloved, departed one, adieu!
Since He, who lent thee, has recalled his own,
We bow in silence, while, to mortal view,
Clouds and thick darkness hang around his throne.
Since He, who lent thee, has recalled his own,
We bow in silence, while, to mortal view,
Clouds and thick darkness hang around his throne.
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |