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I would that thus, when I shall see
MY DOVES. - Miss Barrett.
My little doves have left a nest
Upon an Indian tree,
Or motion from the sea ;
The tropic flowers looked up to it,
The tropic stars looked down; And there my little doves did sit,
With feathers softly brown; And glittering eyes, that showed their right To general nature's deep delight.
And God them taught, at every close
Of water far, and wind,
Their chanting voices kind ;
Fit ministers ! of living loves
Theirs hath the calmest sound, —
To lifeless noises round, —
My little doves were taken away
From that glad nest of theirs ;
And tempest-clouded airs.
And now within the city prison,
In mist and chillness pent,
For sounds of past content, —
The stir without the glow of passion,
The triumph of the mart,
With man's metallic heart,
Yet still, as on my human hand
Their fearless heads they lean, And almost seem to understand
What human musings mean, — With such a plaintive gaze their eyne Are fastened upwardly to mine !
Their chant is soft as on the nest
Beneath the sunny sky ;
And love, that keeps the music, fills
With pastoral memories !
All droppings from the skies,
So teach ye me the wisest part,
My little doves ! to move
Assured by holy love,
To me fair memories belong
Of scenes that erst did bless ; For no regret, - but present song,
And lasting thankfulness, – And very soon to break away, Like types, in purer things than they !
I will have hopes that cannot fade,
For flowers the valley yields, —
Of silent, dewy fields !
TROUBADOUR SONG. – Mrs. Hemans.
The warrior crossed the ocean's foam
For the stormy fields of war, — The maid was left in a smiling home,
And a sunny land, afar.
His voice was heard where javelin-showers
Poured on the steel-clad line ;
Her seat beneath the vine.
His shield was cleft, his lance was riven,
And the red blood stained his crest; While she — the gentlest wind of heaven
Might scarcely fan her breast.
Yet a thousand arrows passed him by,
And again he crossed the seas; But she had died, as roses die,
That perish with a breeze.
As roses die, when the blast is come
For all things bright and fair, —
How had death found her there?
HUMAN FRAILTY. — Coroper.
WEAK and irresolute is man,
The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.
The bow well bent and smart the spring,
Vice seems already slain ;
And it revives again.
Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part; Virtue engages his assent,
But pleasure wins his heart.
'T is here the folly of the wise
Through all his art we view; And while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.
Bound on a voyage of awful length,
And dangers little known,
Man vainly trusts his own.
To reach the distant coast ; The breath of Heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.
THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. — Pope.
FATHER of all! in every age,
In every clime, adored,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord !
Thou great First Cause, least understood,
Who all my sense confined
And that myself am blind ;
Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill;
Left free the human will.