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412 MARIA LOWELL.

"Canst thou not live with us below,
Thou little dove of clay,
And let us hold thee in our hands,
And feed thee every day?

"The little dove it hears us not,
But higher still doth fly;
It could not live with us below——
Its home is in the sky."

Mary, who silently saw all——
That mother true and mild——
Folded her hands upon her breast,
And kneel'd before her child.

SONG.

OH, Bird, thou dartest to the sun
When morning beams first spring,
And I, like thee, would swiftly run,
As sweetly would I sing;
Thy burning heart doth draw thee up
Unto the source of fire——
Thou drinkest from its glowing cup,
And quenchest thy desire.

Oh, Dew, thou droppest soft below
And pearlest all the ground;
Yet when the noontide comes, I know
Thou never canst be found.
I would like thine had been my birth;
Then I, without a sign,
Might sleep the night through on the earth,
To waken in the sky.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 07:30:39