Poems. Volume III / H. F. Gould [electronic text]

OUR FATHER'S WELL.

COME, let's go back, my brother, And, by our father's well, Sit down beside each other, Life's little dreams to tell.

For there we played together, In childhood's sunny hours; Before life's stormy weather Had killed its morning flowers.

And since no draught we're tasted, Its weary journey through, As we so far have hasted, Like that our father drew;

I feel, as at a mountain, I cannot pass nor climb, Till from that distant fountain I drink, as in my prime.

My spirit's longing, thirsting, No waters else can quell; My heart seems near to bursting To reach that good old well.

Though all be changed around it, And though so changed are we, Just where our father found it, That pure well spring will be.

In earth, when deeply going, He reached and smote the rock; He set its fount to flowing— It opened at his knock.

The way, he smoothed and stoned it, A close, round shadowy cell; Whoever since has owned it, It is our father's well!

His prattling son and daughter, With each an infant's cup, We waited for the water, His steady hand drew up.

When we had paused and listened, Till down the bucket dashed, O how it, rising, glistened, And to the sunlight flashed!

And since that moment, never Has that cool deep been dry; Its fount is living ever, While man and seasons die.

Around its mouth is growing The moss of many a year; But from its heart is flowing The water sweet and clear.

Fond memory near it lingers, And, like a happy child, She plucks, with busy fingers, And wreathes the roses wild.

Yet many a lip, whose burning Its limpid drops allayed, Has since, to ashes turning, Been veiled in silent shade.

Still we are here, and telling About our infant play; Where that free spring is welling, So true, and far away.

But O! the change, my brother Our father's head is hoar; The tender name of mother Is ours to call no more.

And now, around thee gather Such little ones as we Were there, beside our father, And look to theirs in thee.

While fast our years are wasting, Their numbers none can tell; So let us hence be hasting To find our Father's well.

Come, we will speed us thither, And from its mossy brink, To flowers that ne'er shall wither Look up to heaven and drink.

They spring beside the waters, Our Father there will give To all his sons and daughters, Where they shall drink and live.