OUR WHITE DOVE. A WHITE DOVE out of heaven flew, 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 When holy sleep in soothing palms 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, With every day some sweetness new, And night and day and day and night God! if we were to lose our child! Oh, we must die, poor hearts would cry: One day she pined up in our face We could not help and yet must see 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; 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 Our bird of God but soars and sings: And meekly doth she minister Glad thoughts of comfort, thrills of pride; Be good! and you shall find her where Earth's sorrows slumber peacefully; OUR LITTLE CHILD WITH RADIANT EYES. WITH seeking hearts we still grope on, In all our heart-ache we are drawn, |