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OUR WHITE DOVE.

A WHITE DOVE out of heaven flew,
White as the whitest shape of grace
That nestles in the soft embrace
Of heaven when skies are summer-blue;

It came with dew-drop purity,

On glad wings of the morning light, And sank into our life, so white A VISION! Sweetly, secretly!

Silently nestled our WHITE Dove:

Balmily made our bosoms swin With still delight, and overbrim ; The air it breathed was breath of love:

Our Dove had eyes of baby-blue,

Soft as the speedwell's by the way, That looketh up as it would say, "Who kissed me while I slept, did you?"

God love it! but we took our bird,

And loved it well, and merry made'; We sang and danced around, or prayed In silence, wherein hearts are heard. It seemed to come from far green fields To meet us over life's rough sea, With leaf of promise from the tree In which a dearer nest it builds.

As fondling mother birds will pull

The softest feathers from their breast, We gave our best to line the nest And make it warm and beautiful!

We held it as the leaves of life

In hidden silent service fold
About a rose's heart of gold,
So jealous of all outer strife!

When holy sleep in soothing palms
Pillowed the darling little head,
How lightly moved we round the bed,
And felt the silence fall in balms!

But all we did or tried to do,

Our flood of joy it never felt; Only into our hearts would melt Still deeper those dove-eyes of blue.

Quick with the spirit of field and wood,
All other birds would sing and sing
Till hearts did ripple and homes did ring:
Our white Dove only cooed and coved--

With every day some sweetness new,

And night and day and day and night
It was the voice of our delight,
That gentle, low, endearing coo!

God! if we were to lose our child!

Oh, we must die, poor hearts would cry:
She looked on us so hushingly;
So mournfully to herself she smiled.

One day she pined up in our face
With a low cry we could not still,
A moaning we could never heal,
For sleep in some more quiet place.

We could not help and yet must see
The little head droop wearily,
The little eyes shine eerily,

My Dove! what have they done to thee?

The look grew pleading in her eyes,

And mournful as the lonesome light That in a window burns all night, Asking for stillness, while one dies.

The hand of Death so coldly clings,

So strongly draws the weak life-wave Into his dark, vast, silent cave: Our little Dove must use its wings!

And so it sought the dearer nest;
A little way across the sea
It kept us winged company,
Then sank into its leafier rest.

And left us long ago to feel

A sadness in the sweetest words, A broken heartstring mid the chords A tone more tremulous when we kneel

But, dear my Christie, do not cry,

Our white Dove left for you and me Such blessed promise as must be Perfected in the heavens high.

The stars that shone in her dear eyes
May be a little while withdrawn
To rise and lead the eternal dawn
For us, up heaven in other skies.

Our bird of God but soars and sings:
Oft when life's heaving wave 's at rest,
She makes her mirror in my breast,
I feel a winnowing of wings.

And meekly doth she minister

Glad thoughts of comfort, thrills of pride;
She makes me feel that if I died
This moment I should go to her.

Be good! and you shall find her where
No wind can shake the wee bird's nest;
No dreams can break the wee bird's rest;
No night, no pain, no parting there!
No echoes of old storms gone by!

Earth's sorrows slumber peacefully;
The weary are at rest, and He
Shall wipe the tears from every eye.

OUR LITTLE CHILD WITH RADIANT EYES.

WITH seeking hearts we still grope on,
Where dropped our jewel in the dust:
The looking crowd have long since gone,
And still we seek with lonely trust:
O little child with radiant eyes!

In all our heart-ache we are drawn,
Unweeting, to your little grave;
There, on your heavenly shores of dawn,
Breaks gentlier sorrow's sobbing wave:
O little child with radiant eyes!

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