 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
OUR FEATHERED DARLINGS.
They have sung to us in our saddest days,
They have spoken in Holy Writ,
And they flutter along the flowery ways,
With the summer glory lit;
And their cooing calls,
Through enchanted halls,
Which we trod in our youthful prime;
With our early loves,
Came the plaintive doves,
They were one with that golden time;
And the glamour of their plumage gleams,
Through the larger world of our wondrous dreams.
They have spoken in Holy Writ,
And they flutter along the flowery ways,
With the summer glory lit;
And their cooing calls,
Through enchanted halls,
Which we trod in our youthful prime;
With our early loves,
Came the plaintive doves,
They were one with that golden time;
And the glamour of their plumage gleams,
Through the larger world of our wondrous dreams.
They were part of our tender hopes and fears,
When we had no settled choice,
For their murmur broke on awaking ears,
And it mixed with a mother's voice;
While it laid a spell,
As if evening fell,
On the passion of later strife;
And the calm it breathes,
Like a Sabbath, wreathes
The leafage of sunset life;
And the music, that went with us so long,
Seemed an echo of sweeter Heavenly song.
When we had no settled choice,
For their murmur broke on awaking ears,
And it mixed with a mother's voice;
While it laid a spell,
As if evening fell,
On the passion of later strife;
And the calm it breathes,
Like a Sabbath, wreathes
The leafage of sunset life;
And the music, that went with us so long,
Seemed an echo of sweeter Heavenly song.
And now they are butchered to our shame,
Just to give a pastime short,
After tortures that are dread to name,
In the guise of Christian sport;
And the bleeding things
With broken wings,
In their helpless anguish lie;
Or, for manly play,
They writhe away,
To despair and starve and die;
Though it was a dove, that from the dark
Brought an olive branch to the troubled Ark.
Just to give a pastime short,
After tortures that are dread to name,
In the guise of Christian sport;
And the bleeding things
With broken wings,
78
Or, for manly play,
They writhe away,
To despair and starve and die;
Though it was a dove, that from the dark
Brought an olive branch to the troubled Ark.
Shall the bird endeared to God and man,
By many a sacred bond,
Be a victim to the brutal ban,
Of which Fashion is so fond?
Must it suffer still,
At the idle will,
Of the pleasure that is blind?
May it meet with rest,
In a Royal breast,
That is ever great and kind?—
There is shelter for its misery lone,
In the mighty shadow of the Throne.
By many a sacred bond,
Be a victim to the brutal ban,
Of which Fashion is so fond?
Must it suffer still,
At the idle will,
Of the pleasure that is blind?
May it meet with rest,
In a Royal breast,
That is ever great and kind?—
There is shelter for its misery lone,
In the mighty shadow of the Throne.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |