By Hannah Flagg Gould
Away, from the path, silly dove,
Where the foot, that may carelessly tread,
Will crush thee!—what! wilt thou not move?
Alas! thou art stiffened and dead!
Allured by the brightness of day,
To sink ‘mid the shadows of night,
Too far from the cote didst thou stray,
And sadly has ended thy flight!
For here, with the snow at thy breast,
With thy wings folded close to thy side,
And crouched in the semblance of rest,
Alone, of the cold thou hast died!
Poor bird! thou hast pictured the fate
Of many in life’s changeful day,
Who, trusting, have found but too late
What smiles may be lit to betray.
How oft for illusions that shine
In a cold and a pitiless world,
Benighted and palsied like thine,
Has the wing of the spirit been furled!
And hearts the most tender and light,
In their warmth, to the earth have been thrown,
‘Mid the chills of adversity’s night,
To suffer and perish alone!