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.