TO A CITY FIGEON.

BY NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.

STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove!
Thy daily visits have touched my love,
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat,
And my joy is high

To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.

Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves,

And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves?

Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,

When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet? How canst thou bear

This noise of people-this sultry air?

Thou alone of the feathered race

Dost look unscared on the human face;
Thou alone, with á wing to flee,

Dost love with man in his haunts to be;

TO A CITY PIGEON.

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And "the gentle dove”

Has become a name for trust and love.

A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!

Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word!
Thou'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild
In the prisoned thoughts of the city child,
And thy glossy wings

Are its brightest image of moving things.

It is no light chance. Thou art set apart,
Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart,
To stir the love for the bright and fair
That else were sealed in this crowded air;
I sometimes dream

Angelic rays from thy pinions stream.

Come then, ever, when daylight leaves
The page I read, to my humble eaves,
And wash thy breast in the hollow spout,
And murmur thy low sweet music out!
I hear and see

Lessons of Heaven, sweet bird, in thee!

WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

THE trembling dew-drops fall

Upon the shutting flowers, like souls at rest,
The stars shine gloriously, and all,

Save me, is blest.

Mother, I love thy grave!

The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild,
Waves o'er thy head-when shall it wave
Above thy child?

'Tis a sweet flower, yet must

Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow,
Dear mother, 'tis thine emblem-dust

Is on thy brow!

WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

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And I could love to die,

To leave untasted life's dark, bitter streams,

By thee, as erst in childhood, lie,

And share thy dreams.

And must I linger here,

To stain the plumage of my sinless years,
And mourn the hopes to childhood dear
With bitter tears!

Ay, must I linger here,

A lonely branch upon a blasted tree,
Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere,

Went down with thee!

Oft from life's withered bower,

In still communion with the past I turn,
And muse on thee, the only flower
In memory's urn.

And, when the Evening pale

Bows like a mourner on the dim blue wave,
I stray to hear the night-winds wail

I

Around thy grave.

Where is thy spirit flown?

gaze above-thy look is imaged there,

T

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WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

I listen and thy gentle tone

Is on the air.

Oh come, while here I press

My brow upon thy grave-and, in those mild And thrilling tones of tenderness,

Bless, bless thy child!

Yes, bless thy weeping child,

And o'er thine urn-religion's holiest shrineOh give his spirit undefiled

To blend with thine.