Mother's Dream and Other Poems. Gould Hannah Flagg

      She had, besides, a gentle brook,

      That wound the meadow through,

      Which from the pond its being took,

      And had its treasures too.

      Her eldest orphan was a son;

      For, children she had three;

      She called him, though a little one,

      Her hope for days to be.

      And well he might be reckoned so,

      If, from the tender shoot,

      We know the way the branch will grow;

      Or, by the flower, the fruit.

      His tongue was true, his mind was bright;

      His temper smooth and mild:

      He was – the parent’s chief delight —

      A good and pleasant child.

      He ’d gather chips and sticks of wood,

      The winter fire to make;

      And help his mother dress their food,

      Or tend the baking cake.

      In summer time he ’d kindly lead

      His little sisters out,

      To pick wild berries on the mead,

      And fish the brook for trout.

      He stirred his thoughts for ways to earn

      Some little gain; and hence,

      Contrived the silver pond to turn,

      In part, to silver pence.

      He found the lilies blooming there

      So spicy sweet to smell,

      And to the eye so pure and fair,

      He plucked them up to sell.

      He could not to the market go:

      He had too young a head,

      The distant city’s ways to know;

      The route he could not tread.

      But, when the coming coach-wheels rolled,

      To pass his humble cot,

      His bunch of lilies to be sold

      Was ready on the spot.

      He ’d stand beside the way, and hold

      His treasures up to show,

      That looked like yellow stars of gold

      Just set in leaves of snow.

      “O buy my lilies!” he would say;

      “You ’ll find them new and sweet:

      So fresh from out the pond are they,

      I have n’t dried my feet!”

      And then he showed the dust that clung

      Upon his garment’s hem,

      Where late the water-drops had hung,

      When he had gathered them.

      And while the carriage checked its pace,

      To take the lilies in,

      His artless orphan tongue and face

      Some bright return would win.

      For many a noble stranger’s hand,

      With open purse, was seen,

      To cast a coin upon the sand,

      Or on the sloping green.

      And many a smiling lady threw

      The child a silver piece;

      And thus, as fast as lilies grew,

      He saw his wealth increase.

      While little more – and little more,

      Was gathered by their sale,

      His widowed mother’s frugal store

      Would never wholly fail.

      For He, who made, and feeds the bird,

      Her little children fed.

      He knew her trust: her cry he heard;

      And answered it with bread.

      And thus, protected by the Power,

      Who made the lily fair,

      Her orphans, like the meadow flower,

      Grew up in beauty there.

      Her son, the good and prudent boy,

      Who wisely thus began,

      Was long the aged widow’s joy;

      And lived an honored man.

      He had a ship, for which he chose

      “The Lily” as a name,

      To keep in memory whence he rose,

      And how his fortune came.

      He had a lily carved and set,

      Her emblem, on her stem;

      And she was called, by all she met,

      A beauteous ocean gem.

      She bore sweet spices, treasures bright;

      And, on the waters wide,

      Her sails, as lily-leaves, were white:

      Her name was well applied.

      Her feeling owner never spurned

      The faces of the poor;

      And found that all he gave returned

      In blessing rich and sure.

      The God, who, by the lily-pond,

      Had drawn his heart above,

      In after life preserved the bond

      Of grateful, holy love.