TO A CITY PIGEON. BY NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove! 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; Dost love with man in his haunts to be; oly gift is thine, sweet bird! ou'rt named with childhood's earliest word! ou'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild he prisoned thoughts of the city child, And thy glossy wings its brightest image of moving things. no light chance. Thou art set apart, sely by Him who has tamed thy heart, stir the love for the bright and fair t else were sealed in this crowded air; I sometimes dream elic rays from thy pinions stream. e then, ever, when daylight leaves sons 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, Save me, is blest. Mother, I love thy grave! The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, 'Tis a sweet flower, yet must Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow, Dear mother, 'tis thine emblem-dust By thee, as erst in childhood, lie, And share thy dreams. And must I linger here, tain the plumage of my sinless years, And mourn the hopes to childhood dear With bitter tears! Ay, must I linger here, ely branch upon a blasted tree, Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere, Went down with thee! Oft from life's withered bower, l communion with the past I turn, And muse on thee, the only flower In memory's urn. nd, when the Evening pale like a mourner on the dim blue wave, stray to hear the night-winds wail Around thy grave. 'here is thy spirit flown? above-thy look is imaged there, T |