My little doves were taken away
From that glad nest of theirs;Across an ocean foaming aye,
And tempest-clouded airs. My little doves! who lately knew The sky and wave by warmth and blue!

And now, within the city prison

In mist and chillness pent,
With sudden upward look they listen

For sounds of past content,—
Nor lapse of water, swell of breeze,
Or nut-fruit falling from the trees!

The stir without, the glow of passion, —
The triumph of the mart, — The gold and silver's dreary clashing
With man's metallic heart, — The wheeled pomp, the pauper tread, — These only sounds are heard instead.

Yet still, as on my human hand
Their fearless heads they lean, And almost seem to understand
What human musings mean,— With such a plaintive gaze their eyne Are fastened upwardly to mine!

Their chant is soft as on the nest

Beneath the sunny sky; For love, that stirred it in their breast,

Remains undyingly, And, 'neath the city's shade, can keep The well of music clear and deep.

106 TROUBADOUR SONG.

And love, that keeps the music, fills
With pastoral memories!All echoings from out the hills,
All droppings from the skies, All flowings from the wave and wind, Remembered in their chant I find.

So teach ye me the wisest part,
My little doves! to move Along the city ways, with heart
Assured by holy love, And vocal with such songs as own A fountain to the world unknown.

To me fair memories belong
Of scenes that erst did bless;

For no regret, — but present song,
And lasting thankfulness, —

And very soon to break away,

Like types, in purer things than they

I will have hopes that cannot fade,
For flowers the valley yields, —

I will have humble thoughts, instead
Of silent, dewy fields!

My spirit and my God shall be

My seaward hill, my boundless sea.

TROUBADOUR SONG.— Mrs. Hemans.

The warrior crossed the ocean's foam
For the stormy fields of war,—

The maid was left in a smiling home,
And a sunny land, afar.

His voice was heard where javelin-showers

Poured on the steel-clad line;
Her step was 'midst the summer-flowers,

Her seat beneath the vine.

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven,
And the red blood stained his crest;

While she — the gentlest wind of heaven
Might scarcely fan her breast.

Yet a thousand arrows passed him by, And again he crossed the seas;
But she had died, as roses die, That perish with a breeze.

As roses die, when the blast is come For all things bright and fair, —
There was death within the smiling home, How had death found her there?

HUMAN FRAILTY.— Conner.

Weak and irresolute is man,

The purpose of to-day,
Woven with pains into his plan,

To-morrow rends away.

The bow well bent and smart the spring,

Vice seems already slain;
But passion rudely snaps the string,

And it revives again.

108 THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.

Some foe to his upright intent Finds out his weaker part;
Virtue engages his assent, But pleasure wins his heart.

'T is here the folly of the wise,
Through all his art, we view;And while his tongue the charge (jenies,
His conscience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length,

And dangers little known,
A stranger to superior strength,

Man vainly trusts his own.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail
To reach the distant coast;The breath of heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.— Pope.

Father of all! in every age,

In every clime, adored,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

Thou great First Cause, least understood,

Who all my sense confined
To know but this, that thou art good,

And that myself am blind;

Yet gave me, in this dark estate,

To see the good from ill;
And, binding nature fast in fats

Left free the human will.

What conscience dictates to be done,

Or warns me not to do, This teach me more than hell to shun,

That, more than heaven pursue.

What blessings thy free bounty gives,

Let me not cast away;
For God is paid when man receives, — To enjoy is to obey.

Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound;
Or think thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round.

Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume thy bolts to throw,
And deal damnation round the land On each I judge thy foe.

If I am right, thy grace impart

Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, O, teach my heart

To find that better way.

Save me alike from foolish pride,

Or impious discontent
At aught thy wisdom has denied,

Or aught thy goodness lent.

Teach me to feel another's woe;

To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show,

That mercy show to me.