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74 SONGS FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE.
A dove of earth has spread his pinions soft, And from our vision gently soar'd aloft;
And now he spreads his wings on those blest plains, Where birds of Paradise forever sing— Where an eternal noon of beauty reigns, To gild the flowery, everlasting spring.
Ye, who have call'd that brilliant gem your own; Ye, on whose hearts its transient lustre shone; Ne'er to be shrouded by the gloom of death,.
It beams with glory now forever sure! 0, would ye dim its brightness by the breath Of sordid love, which ever stains the pure ?
Ye, who have nursed in tenderness the flower, 0! would ye take it from its heavenly bower ? How could ye shield it from the stormy wind, Or nurture well its soft, unfolding charms ? He who has snatch'd it from a world of sin, Will keep it safe in his protecting arms!
Ye, who have mourn'd so much your bright
wing'd dove, Behold, he flutters near the throne of love ! Ye would not call him thence—he laves his wings In those immortal founts, which rise so clear! Ye would not call him thence—the song he sings 13 blent with voices of a purer sphere !