To Mrs. Marissal

Whither, whither, wearied dove,
Wilt thou fly to seek thy rest?
Beat with many a heavy storm,
Where repose thy tender breast?
Hither, hither, gentle dove,
Bend thy flight and build thy home;
Here repose thy tender breast,
Fix thy foot, and never roam.
Welcome, welcome, soft-eyed dove,
To the sheltering low-roofed cot,
Leave the splendid city’s throng,
Meekly kiss thy quiet lot.

Low-roofed cots and whispering groves
Suit thy pensive sweetness best;
Health shall bloom, and Peace shall smile
Round thy small but downy nest.
Try thy thrilling notes once more,
Plume again thy ruffled wing;
With thy sister turtles coo,
Drink at Pleasure’s native spring.