Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 706

Of all the birds that cleave the air,
Buoyant on rapid wing,
I mourn thee most, my pet dove fair,
Dear, darling thing!
Noah loved thee, dove, full well,
When a guilty world was drowned;
With thy message of peace thou cam'st to tell
Of solid ground;
He knew thy truth as the waters fell
Slowly around.

The raven and dove good Noah sent
Far over the heaving flood;
The raven wist not the way he went,
Nor back returned, for his strength was spent
In the watery solitude;
But cleaving the air with rapid wing,
The dove returned, and back did bring
His tale of the flood subdued.

At first she found no spot whereon
To rest her from weary flight;
And onward she flew, and on, and on,
Till now at length she gazed upon
The mountain tops in sight;
And the dove returned with her letter – a leaf
(Of mickle meaning, I trow, though brief),
Which Noah read with delight.

Not easy to rob thy nest, thou dove,
By cunning or strength of men;
On a shelf of the beetling crag above
Was thy castle of strength, thy home of love,
Who dare come near thee then?
Harmless and gentle ever wert thou,
Dear, darling dove!
In the ear of thy mate with a coo and a bow
Still whispering love!

Not in silver or gold didst thou delight,
Nor of luxuries ever didst dream;
Pulse and corn was thy sober bite —
Thy drink was the purling stream!
Never, dear dove, didst need to buy
Linen or silk attire;
Nor braided cloth, nor raiment fine
Didst thou require.
Thy coat, dressed neat with thy own sweet bill,
Was of feathers bright green and blue,
And closely fitting, impervious still
To rain or dew!

No creed or paternoster thou
Didst sing or say;
And yet thy soul is in bliss, I trow,
Be 't where it may!
That now withouten coffin or shroud
In thy little grave thou dost lie,
Makes me not sad; but oh, I am wae
At the sad death thou didst die.