TO THE TURTLE-DOVE.

His ceaseless song came down, mellow'd and fine,
And fainter, and yet fainter, till it died;

The swallow darting to and fro; the hawk,
Round and yet round, with slow and wary course
Gliding, or hanging like a cloudy speck,
Or sinking slow, with gently tremulous wing,
Or like an arrow rapidly darting down.
The linnet, and the redbreast, and the thrush,
The goldfinch, and the little wren,-all birds
That sing and frolic in the sun, were there.
I mark'd their differing motions; listen'd oft
To their dissimilar songs, all at once,

Yet without discord. Sometimes far above
The heron flew, with long, slow-flapping wings;
Sometimes the cooing wood-pigeon came near;
The crow, and sea-gull with his plaintive cry.

ATHERSTONE.

TO THE TURTLE-DOVE.

EEP in the wood, thy voice I list, and love.
Thy soft complaining song, thy tender cooing;
O what a winning way thou hast of wooing!
Gentlest of all thy race-sweet Turtle-dove!
Thine is a note that doth not pass away,
Like the light music of a Summer's day:

TO THE TURTLE-DOVE.

The merle may trill his richest song in vain-
Scarce do we say, "List! for he pipes again;"
But thou! that low plaint oft and oft repeating
To the coy mate that needs so much entreating,

Fillest the woods with a discursive song

Of love, that sinketh deep, and resteth long;
Hushing the voice of mirth, and staying folly,
And waking in the heart a gentle melancholy.

D. CONWAY.