 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
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TO JANE.
Written in her Album, beneath a Picture of a Dove at a Fountain.
The wild-dove, to the garden spring,May come and lave its wandering wing,
And bend above the waters bright,
And murmur with a dove's delight;
But holier, in the solitude,
Her own pure fountain of the wood,
That blessed home,—that shadowed nest,
Where soft and calm her dear ones rest!
And flinging, from her pinions fair,
The silver drops that linger there;
The bird will leave the garden-spring,
And wave for home her weary wing.
And thus for thee, in haunts of light,
The stream of Joy will sparkle bright,
And thou wilt stay thy step and sip
The fairy draught, with smiling lip;
And linger long amid the flowers,
That gaily wreathe in Pleasure's bowers.
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And turn thee from the wave away,
To that fair fount of Truth and Love,
That springs within thy home for aye!
Oh! calm and blest be there thy rest,
As the wild bird's in woodland nest!
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |