 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
30
THE MEETING.
We met upon Mount Auburn, ere its sod
Was strew'd with drops from sorrow's languid eye;
Before its shadowy walks the mourner trod,
Or to its balmy air released the sigh.
Was strew'd with drops from sorrow's languid eye;
Before its shadowy walks the mourner trod,
Or to its balmy air released the sigh.
The spot had just been rendered hallowed ground,
By solemn rite and consecrating prayer:
It bore no marble, heaved no sacred mound,
But Nature reigned in placid beauty there.
By solemn rite and consecrating prayer:
It bore no marble, heaved no sacred mound,
But Nature reigned in placid beauty there.
And as we stood, and viewed the peaceful scene,
Our thought and converse on its purpose ran;
And on the swiftness of the race, between
The point of starting, and the goal of man.
Our thought and converse on its purpose ran;
And on the swiftness of the race, between
The point of starting, and the goal of man.
He plucked for me a branch, where, wide and high,
The thick, green boughs around us hung a shade;
But thought not, that his lips and beaming eye
Must close forever, ere its leaves should fade.
The thick, green boughs around us hung a shade;
But thought not, that his lips and beaming eye
Must close forever, ere its leaves should fade.
We never met again! The branch retained
Its verdure, when his eye had lost its light.
The vital flame within his bosom waned,
And left it cold, while yet my branch was bright.
Its verdure, when his eye had lost its light.
The vital flame within his bosom waned,
And left it cold, while yet my branch was bright.
A few short days—and he was on the deep,
Whose swelling surges he should cross no more.
In foreign earth the stranger's ashes sleep—
His spirit walks the everlasting shore!
Whose swelling surges he should cross no more.
In foreign earth the stranger's ashes sleep—
His spirit walks the everlasting shore!
31
But, we shall meet again! While, “dust to dust,”
Of this frail house of clay may soon be said,
Its tenant His unfailing word will trust,
Whose second coming shall revive the dead.
Of this frail house of clay may soon be said,
Its tenant His unfailing word will trust,
Whose second coming shall revive the dead.
On that great morning may our meeting be
Among the flowery hills without a grave,
And in the shade of that unfading Tree,
Whose boughs with healing for the nations wave!
Among the flowery hills without a grave,
And in the shade of that unfading Tree,
Whose boughs with healing for the nations wave!
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |