Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Midnight Mail
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,There charge resigned, they start, and thenAre gone, and all is hushed again, As not a leaf had stirred.
Hast thou a parent far away,A beauteous child to be thy stayIn 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 feelThe rattling of that reckless wheel,That brings the bright, or boding seal, On every trembling thread,That strings thy heart, till morn appearsTo crown thy hopes, or end thy fears;To light the smile, or draw thy tears, As line on line is read.
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 moreMay shed a silver luster o'erHis children grouped—nor death 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 sweetAnd tender recollections meet,Has shown its flaming winding sheet, In midnight's awful gloom!
And while, alternate, o'er my soulThose cold or burning wheels will rollTheir chill or heat, beyond control, Till morn shall bring relief,Father in heaven, whate'er may beThe cup, which thou hast sent for me,I know 't is good, prepared by Thee, Though filled with joy or grief!