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THE BELFRY PIGEON.

ON the cross-beam under the Old South bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.

In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air:
I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has pass'd,
And the belfry edge is gain'd at last.

'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel —
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.
Whatever is rung on that noisy bell

Chime of the hour or funeral knell —

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The dove in the belfry must hear it well.

When the tongue swings out to the midnight moonWhen the sexton cheerly rings for noon

When the clock strikes clear at morning light

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When the child is waked with nine at night'

When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,

Filling the spirit with tones of prayer
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast,
Then drops again with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen,
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ;
And daily, with unwilling feet,

I tread, like thee, the crowded street;

But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world and soar,
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,
Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

TIRED OF PLAY.

TO A PICTURE OF A CHILD AT PLAY.

TIRED of play! Tired of play!
What hast thou done this livelong day?
The birds are silent, and so is the bee;

The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;

Twilight gathers, and day is done

How hast thou spent it

restless one?

Playing! But what hast thou done beside
To tell thy mother at eventide?

What promise of morn is left unbroken?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learn'd by field and hill,
By greenwood path, and singing rill?

There will come an eve to a longer day,
That will find thee tired- but not of play!
And thou wilt lean as thou leanest now,

With drooping limbs and aching brow,
And wish the shadows would faster creep,
And long to go to thy quiet sleep.

Well were it then if thine aching brow
Were as free from sin and shame as now!

Well for thee, if thy lip could tell
A tale like this, of a day spent well.
If thine open hand had relieved distress
If thy pity had sprung to wretchedness --
If thou hast forgiven the sore offence,
And humbled thy heart with penitence-
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee
With her holy meanings eloquently –

If every creature hath won thy love,
From the creeping worm to the brooding dove -
If never a sad, low spoken word

Hath plead with thy human heart unheard
Then, when the night steals on, as now,
It will bring relief to thine aching brow,
And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.

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APRIL.

A violet by a mossy stone,
Half-hidden from the eye,
Fair as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky.-WORDsworth.

I HAVE found violets! April hath come on,
And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain
Falls in the beaded drops of summer-time.
You may hear birds at morning and at eve,
The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls,
Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in
His beautiful, bright neck; and, from the hills,
A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea,
Tells the release of waters, and the earth
Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves.
Are lifted by the grass; and so I know
That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard
The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring.
Take of my violets! I found them where
The liquid south stole o'er them, on a bank
That lean'd to running water. There's to me
A daintiness about these early flowers,
That touches me like poetry. They blow
With such a simple loveliness among

The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out
Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts
Whose beatings are too gentle for the world.
I love to go in the capricious days

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