THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN. 
221 
SNOWBALL. 
Viburnum Opulus. 
Language — THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN. 
What dost thou, O, wandering dove, 
From thy home on the rock’s riven breast? 
’Tis fair, but the falcon is wheeling above : 
O, fly to thy sheltering nest; 
To thy nest, wandering dove, to thy nest. 
Frail bark, on that bright summer sea, 
That the breezes now curl but in sport, 
Spread cheerly thy sail, for though pleasant it be, 
Ne’er linger till safe in the port; 
To the port, little bark, to the port. 
Tired roe, that the hunter dost flee, 
With his arrows e’en now on the win". 
In yon deep green recess there’s a fountain for thee: 
Go, rest by that clear secret spring; 
To the spring, panting roe, to the spring. 
My spirit! still hovering, half blest, 
’Mid shadows so fleeting and dim; 
Ah, knowest thou thy rock , and thy haven of rest, 
And thy pure spring of joy ? 
Then to Him , fluttering spirit, to Him! 
Anon. 
