Mother's Dream and Other Poems. Gould Hannah Flagg

      Half our sorrows, half our troubles,

      Making head and heart to ache,

      Are the fruit of blowing bubbles,

      Bright to view, but quick to break.

      All have played the child imbecile,

      Breathing hard to swell the sides

      Of a shining, fluid vessel,

      Frailer than the air it rides.

      From the infant’s cradle rising,

      All the bubble mania show,

      Oft our richest wealth comprising

      In the bubbles that we blow.

      Brilliant, buoyant, upward going,

      Pleased, we mark them in their flight,

      Every hue of iris showing,

      As they glance along the light.

      Little castles, high and airy,

      With their crystal walls so thin,

      Each presents the wicked fairy,

      Vanity, enthroned within!

      But when two have struck together,

      What of either do we find?

      Not so much as one gay feather

      Flying Hope has left behind!

      Still the world are busy, blowing,

      Every one, some empty ball;

      So the seeds of mischief sowing,

      Where, to burst, the bubbles fall.

      Nor for self alone to gather,

      Is our evil harvest found;

      Oft, with pipe and cup, we rather

      Step upon our neighbor’s ground.

      Thus, amusing one another,

      While the glistening playthings rise,

      We may doom a friend or brother

      To a life of care and sighs.

      Do you doubt my simple story?

      I can point a thousand ways

      Where this bubble-making glory

      Has in darkness hid its rays!

      Yet we ’ll spare a slight confusion

      Caused the world by giving names;

      Since a right to some delusion

      Every one from nature claims!

      Radiant with his spirit’s light

      Was the little beauteous child,

      Sporting round a fountain bright,

      Playing through the flowerets wild.

      Where they grow he lightly stepped,

      Cautious not a leaf to crush;

      Then about the fount he leaped,

      Shouting at its merry gush.

      While the sparkling waters welled,

      Laughing as they bubbled up,

      In his lily hands he held,

      Closely clasped, a silver cup.

      Now he put it forth to fill;

      Then he bore it to the flowers,

      Through his fingers there to spill

      What it held, in mimic showers.

      “Open, pretty buds,” said he,

      “Open to the air and sun;

      So, to-morrow I may see

      What my rain to-day has done.

      “Yes, you will, you will, I know,

      For the drink I give you now,

      Burst your little cups, and blow,

      When I’m gone, and can’t tell how!

      “Oh! I wish I could but see

      How God’s finger touches you,

      When your sides unclasp, and free,

      Let your leaves and odors through.

      “I would watch you all the night,

      Nor in darkness be afraid,

      Only once to see aright

      How a beauteous flower is made.

      “Now remember! I shall come

      In the morning from my bed,

      Here to find among you some

      With your brightest colors spread!”

      To his buds he hastened out,

      At the dewy morning hour,

      Crying, with a joyous shout,

      “God has made of each a flower!”

      Precious must the ready faith

      Of the little children be,

      In the sight of Him, who saith,

      “Suffer them to come to me.”

      Answered, by the smile of heaven,

      Is the infant’s offering found,

      Though “a cup of water given,”

      Even to the thirsty ground.

      The figure before you is Miss Patty Proud:

      Her feelings are lowery, her frown like a cloud;

      Because proud Miss Patty can hardly endure

      To come near the lowly abode of the poor.

      She fears the plain floor of the humble will spoil

      Her silk shoes and hose, and her skirt-bottom soil;

      And so she goes winching; and holds up her dress

      So high, it were well if her heels would show less.

      But when she walks through the fine streets of the town,

      She puts on fine airs, and displays her rich gown;

      Till some, whom she passes, will think of the bird

      Renowned for gay feathers, whose name you have heard.

      In thought she is trifling – in manner as vain

      As that silly fowl, taking pride in his train;

      And none, who have marked her, will need to be told

      That she has a heart hard, and haughty, and cold.

      I saw, when she met some poor children one day,

      Who asked her for alms, she turned frowning away;

      And told them, “Poor people must work, to be fed,

      And not trouble ladies, to help them to bread.”

      And just as the sad little mendicants said,

      Their mother was dying, their father was dead,

      She entered a store, with a smooth, smiling face,

      To lay out her purse in gay ribbons and lace.

      I saw her curl up her sour lip in disdain,

      Because Ellen Pitiful picked up the