Hannah Flagg Gould



The Trunk From Sea

by Hannah Flagg Gould

Strength of my strength! around me, lest I sink,
Place thine Almighty arm, and bear me up;
Lest I should faint, and thus refuse to drink,
When thou, my Father, dost present the cup!
This double trial of the heart and flesh
How shall I stand, till thou the power supply?
This fearful opening of the wound afresh
How can I bear, with no physician by?

I knew my son -- I knew too well that he
His dying pillow found upon the wave --
I knew the solemn wailing of the sea
Was still the dirge o'er his unfathomed grave!
Yet, strange delusion! -- worse than vain deceit!
How oft to this weak fancy did it seem
That still my child and I on earth should meet --
That I'd been struggling through a troubled dream!

For, when he last was folded to my heart,
The tide of life in his young breast was high,
I from his cheek have seen no rose depart;
Have marked no lustre fading from his eye.
But now, this awful speaker! -- as the lid
Slowly is raised its bosom to unveil,
Truth, like a bolt that in the cloud was hid,
Bursts on my sight, and strikes my spirit pale!

Here is the vesture! -- here's the faithful friend,
Wrapped in deep silence, in its case of gold,
Whose little hand was by him to the end,
Nor rested till its master's hand was cold.
Here is the seal, that all his letters bear;
The chain -- the gift that near his heart was worn.
This -- sad memorial! 't is a lock of hair
That from his head some careful hand hath shorn!

And here's the lamp, that shone upon his way,
God's everlasting Word, his trust and guide.
It is the food that fed him day by day;
The fountain that his draught of life supplied.
It is the sacred casket whence he took
The goodly pearl that in his crown is set;
The radiant centre where he loved to look
On justice, peace, and truth, and mercy met.

To its pure author every glowing line,
That forms this hallowed book, he fondly traced.
Thus o'er my soul pour in, O, light divine,
And I will open where his mark is placed!
'T is at the Saviour's tomb! -- but here, instead
Of the pale clay, are angels shining now!
The grave is broken! for, behold! the dead
Is risen, and sweetly asks, Why weepest thou?


Poems By Miss H. F. Gould. Volume 1.
Copyright 1836
Hilliard, Gray, & Co., Boston