The Hawk said to the Dove, “My dear,

Why dost thou shed tear after tear,

That go to swell the streamlet clear?”

The Dove said to the Hawk, “I fear

That spring is gone and autumn’s here;

The rills have ceased their glad career,

The leaves and flowers are dead and sere,

The partridges no more we hear;

So I shall weep in my despair,

And from my eyes shed many a tear:—

How shall I find my babies’ fare?”

He said, “Weep not this autumn drear,

For spring will come another year,

And sunshine bring the world its cheer,

And Hope shall for the poor appear.

Upon my pinions thee I’ll bear

Where those tall trees their summit rear,

And high upon those mountains bare

I’ll build a nest with tender care,

I’ll make for thee a dwelling there,—

A hearth laid in that rocky lair,

With chimney open to the air;

The smoke shall to the clouds repair—

And to the South Wind fly our care!”

Autumn gave place to springtime fair,

The rills were loosed on their career

And went to swell the streamlet clear,

Like blood-drops from the boulders bare.

Bright yellow flowers the hills did wear,

And violets, with perfume rare,

And flowers of countless colours fair;

And birds with music filled the air,

And bleating lambs called everywhere

To God for all His love and care.