XIX.
While all the breathless woods aloof
Lie hush'd in noontide's deep repose,
That dove, sun-warmed on yonder roof,
With what a grave content she coos!
One note for her! Deep streams run smooth
The ecstatic song of transience tells.
O what a depth of loving truth
In thy divine contentment dwells!
All day, with down-dropt lids, I sat,
In trance; the present scene forgone.
When Hesper rose, on Ararat,
Methought, not English hills, he shone.
Back to the ark, the waters o'er,
The primal dove pursued her flight:
A branch of that blest tree she bore
Which feeds the Church with holy light.
I heard her rustling through the air
With sliding plume—no sound beside,
Save the sea-sobbings everywhere,
And sighs of that subsiding tide.