 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
105
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL.
'T is midnight—all is peace profound!
But lo! upon the murmuring ground,
The lonely, swelling, hurrying sound
Of distant wheels is heard!
They come—they pause a moment—when
Their charge resigned, they start, and then
Are gone, and all is hushed again,
As not a leaf had stirred.
But lo! upon the murmuring ground,
The lonely, swelling, hurrying sound
Of distant wheels is heard!
They come—they pause a moment—when
Their charge resigned, they start, and then
Are gone, and all is hushed again,
As not a leaf had stirred.
Hast thou a parent far away,
A beauteous child to be thy stay
In life's decline—or sisters, they
Who shared thine infant glee?
A brother on a foreign shore?
Is he whose breast thy token bore,
Or are thy treasures wandering o'er
A wide tumultuous sea?
A beauteous child to be thy stay
In life's decline—or sisters, they
Who shared thine infant glee?
A brother on a foreign shore?
Is he whose breast thy token bore,
Or are thy treasures wandering o'er
A wide tumultuous sea?
If aught like these, then thou must feel
The rattling of that reckless wheel,
That brings the bright, or boding seal,
On every trembling thread,
That strings thy heart, till morn appears
To crown thy hopes, or end thy fears,
To light thy smile, or draw thy tears,
As line on line is read.
The rattling of that reckless wheel,
That brings the bright, or boding seal,
On every trembling thread,
That strings thy heart, till morn appears
To crown thy hopes, or end thy fears,
To light thy smile, or draw thy tears,
As line on line is read.
106
Perhaps thy treasure 's in the deep,
Thy lover in a dreamless sleep,
Thy brother where thou canst not weep
Upon his distant grave!
Thy parent's hoary head no more
May shed a silver lustre o'er
His children grouped—nor deat restore
Thy son from out the wave!
Thy lover in a dreamless sleep,
Thy brother where thou canst not weep
Upon his distant grave!
Thy parent's hoary head no more
May shed a silver lustre o'er
His children grouped—nor deat restore
Thy son from out the wave!
Thy prattler's tongue, perhaps, is stilled,
Thy sister's lip is pale and chilled,
Thy blooming bride, perchance, has filled
Her corner of the tomb.
May be, the home where all thy sweet
And tender recollections meet,
Has shown its flaming winding-sheet,
In midnight's awful gloom!
Thy sister's lip is pale and chilled,
Thy blooming bride, perchance, has filled
Her corner of the tomb.
May be, the home where all thy sweet
And tender recollections meet,
Has shown its flaming winding-sheet,
In midnight's awful gloom!
And while, alternate, o'er my soul
Those cold or burning wheels will roll
Their chill or heat, beyond control,
Till morn shall bring relief,
Father in heaven, whate'er may be
The cup, which thou hast sent for me,
I know 't is good, prepared by Thee,
Though filled with joy or grief!
Those cold or burning wheels will roll
Their chill or heat, beyond control,
Till morn shall bring relief,
Father in heaven, whate'er may be
The cup, which thou hast sent for me,
I know 't is good, prepared by Thee,
Though filled with joy or grief!
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |