Burlington free press. [volume] (Burlington, Vt.) 1827-1865, 1860-04-20

OUR WHITE DOVE.
By GERALD MASSEY.

4 White Dove out OF Heaven few
White as the whitest Shape of Grace
That nestles in the soft embrace
OF heaven when skies are summer blue.
1t came with dew drops purity,
On glad wings Of he morning light,
And sank into our life, so white,
A vision , sweetly silently
Bslmily nested our White Dove;
Nestled and made our bosom swim
With still delight and overbiim;
The air it breathed was breath Of love.
Our Dove had eyes of baby blue,
Meek as the speedw elPs by the way,
That looketh as it would say
"Who kissed me while l 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 dearer nest it builds.
As fondling mother birds will pull
The softest feathers from their breast,
We gave our breast to line the nest,
And make it warm and beautiful
We held it as the leaves Of life
H. hi1 en- silent service fold
About a roses heart of gold,
50 jealous of all outer strife
When holy sleep in soothing palms
Piliowed 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 food Of joy it never felt,
Only into our hearts would melt
Still deeper those dove eyes Of blue.
With every day some sweetness new;
And night and day, and day and night,
1t 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 kusefn gly,
So mournfully to herself she smiled.
One day she pined up in our face,
With 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 YEARLY,
The little eyes shine EARLY;
Ny Dove, what have they done to thee
The look grew pleading in her eyes,
And mournful as the lonesome light
That in some window burns all night,
Asking for stiffness 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,
1t kept US winged company,
Than sank into its leafer rest.
And left us long ago to feel
A sadness in the sweetest words,
A broken heart-string 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 little while withdrawn,
To rise and lead the eternal dawn
For us, up heaven, in other skies.
Our Bird of God but scars and sings
Oft when life's heaviug waves 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 died
This moment, I should 60 to her.
Be good, and you shall find her where
No wind can shake the wee birds nest,
N dreams can break the wee birds rest
\ 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.