Virginia Argus

POETRY:

For The Argus

THE DOVE.

NO. III.

TO The Dove, cooing in a heavy shower of rain.

Sweet visitant of Spring, I hear,
Through the keen whistling breeze
Thy strains; which charm the op'ning year
And the reflecting please:

Welcome to me, endearing mate,
To tune thy moanful song,
And reflection sage, create,
As seasons roll along.

But yesterday thy plumage di'd,
Cut by the Northern blast,
But yet thy nature ne'er beli'd,
Enjoy'd the pleasure past.

To day, though spring has usher'd in,
With rattling wind and rain,
Thou still can'st show thy heav'nly mein,
Still sing in music's vein!

What a wise lesson this for me,
Who weakly am and frail,
Who, no happiness can see,
When Nature seems to fail.

What looks so uniform and wise
In reason as tho Dove?
Though tempests beat and troubles rise,
She's life and joy and love.

Then why can't I, who reason have,
Forever be sedate?
When anguish gnaws and passions rave,
Find bliss in even state?

When av'rice goads—ambitious strife,
Malice, Jealousy, Revenge—
Envy, who dies while others live,
In aching misery plunge,—

—Why cannot I to evil blind,
To peace and content giv'n,
Always preserve an even mind,
And make e'en sorrow heav'n?

Could I but thee, sweet bird of peace,
From every tumult freed,
Resemble in thine angel ease,
I should be bless'd indeed.

I should be happy, spite of fate,
And all the demon throng,
Beatified in humble state,
In echo to thy song.

Serenity should crown my brow,
With a celestial wreath,
And ev'ry state should give me now,
What bliss thy accents breathe.

Go on, sweet cherub, chaunt thy strain,
In pious symphony,
And charm away each vagrant pain,
With heav'nly minstrelsy:

And when fair morning opes her port
With modest light and shade,
Attune thy matin from thy throat,
Within each op'ning glade.

Sing that Aurora's beam bespeaks
In sober majesty,
The youth which from thy accents breaks
Sportive yet docile, free.

And when the ev'ning sun declines,
Far down his western way,
And peerless Luna gently shines,
To ape the charms of day,—

When twinkling orbs of ebon night
Spangle the mellow grove,
In vespers pregnant with delight,
Revere the God of Love.

In wind, in storm, in rain, in snow,
Thine orisons emit,
And by thy pious calmness show,
No harm the good can fright.

MELVILLE.