BY DMETRIEFF.


The little dove, with heart of sadness,
In silent pain sighs night and day,
What now can wake that heart to gladness?
His mate beloved is far away.

He coos no more with soft caresses,
No more is millet sought by him,
The dove his lonesome state distresses,
And tears his swimming eyeballs dim.

From twig to twig now skips the lover,
Filling the grove with accents kind,
On all sides roams the harmless rover,
Hoping his little friend to find.

Ah! vain that hope his grief is tasting,
Fate seems to scorn his faithful love,
And imperceptibly is wasting,
Wasting away, the little dove!

At length upon the grass he threw him,
Hid in his wing his beak and wept,
There ceased his sorrows to pursue him,
The little dove for ever slept.

His mate, now sad abroad and grieving,