[from the Houston Telegraph.]
‘ Ah! poor little trembler, come hither and rest;
to a wounded Dove.
Fear not my caresses, thou was frightened thing,
My touch shall be soft as the down on thy breast;
I'll bear thee as light as thy soft waving wing.
Come nestle up close to this warm, throbbing heart,
For wounded like thee it is quivering with pain;
Struck down to the earth by the fierce-hissing dart--
It never will soar on bright pinion again.
Like thee it bath wantoned in Summer's bright how'rs
Or sported all free on the soft waving breeze;
But oh! what are all of these sunshiny hours
To hearts that must painfully languish through these.
Oh! fear me not thus, I would harm not a feather
Thou poor little wanderer, come hither and rest,
Nay, venture not forth in this wild stormy weather,
But nestle up close to this fostering breast.
Ah! once a young hoveling as timid as thou,
Just nestled one moment close, close to my heart!
But wee, timid bird, it hath flown from me now--
Alas! that the link of that love chain should part!
I thought I could win the sweet bridling to stay,
And fettered his wings with the soft chain of love;
But, bright little wand'rer, he flew far away,
And sports with the cherubs in bowers above.
’ December 5th, 1861.