III.— In the heart of the Child.

There is a little dove that sits Between the arches all alone, Cut and carved in old grey stone, And a spider o'er it flits:

Round and round his web is spun, With the still bird looking through, From among the beads of dew, Set in glories of the sun.

So the bird looks out at morn At the larks that mount the sky, And it gazes, still and shy, At the new moon's scanty horn.

And the owls, that fly by night, Mock it from the ivied tower, Hooting at the midnight hour Down upon it from the height.

But the little dove sits on, Calm between the arches there, In the holy morning air, When the owls with night are gone.

Then the bells for matins ring, And the grey friars past it go, Into church in double row, And it hears the chaunts they sing.

And the incense stealing out Through the chinks, and through the seams, Floats among the dusty beams, And wreathes all the bird about.

All the children as they pass Turn to see the bird of stone, 'Twixt the arches all alone, Wading to it through the grass.

Is the spider's pretty net, Hung across the arches there, But a frail and foolish snare For the little stone bird set?

If the place should e'er decay, And the tower be crumbled down, And the arches overthrown, Would the dove then fly away?

So that, seeking it around, All some golden summer day, 'Mid the ruins as they lay, It should never more be found?