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ORIGINAL POETRY. 
—— 
TO A DOVE, AT SEA. 
BY HENRY J. BRADFIELD, ESQ. 
SwEEt bird of love! here take thy rest, 
And smooth thy wildly ruffled wing ; 
Here, if thy gentle timid breast 
Be captive to lone sorrowing, 
With the pale hues of lingering day, 
Let peace dispel those cares away ! 
Fair innocent! around, on high, 
Fleet lightning darts its melting ray ; 
Loud thunders rock the shrouded sky, 
And darkly roll beneath! Oh, stay, 
And on my heaving breast recline ; 
I would not hurt one plume of thine. 
Perchance, thou mourn’st some loved, lost mate, 
And from the fountain’s wanton play, 
Or shadowy groves, disconsolate, 
Thou wanderest from the woods away : 
Now that thy own fair bride is gone, 
Thou fain wouldst live, and die, alone! 
M 
