Our White Dove

A WHITE Dove out of glory 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 swim
With still delight, and o'erbrim;
The air it breathed was breath of love.

Our Dove had eyes of baby-blue,
Soft as the speedwell's by the way,
That looked up to us as they 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 chirrup and sing
Till hearts did ripple and homes did ring:
Our white Dove only cooed and cooed—

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!
O, 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 might 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 wingèd company,
Then fled into its leafier rest,

And suddenly left us long 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 gave for you and me
Such blessed promise as must be
Perfected in the heavens high.

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.