O, what a depth of loving truth
In thy divine contentment dwells!
All day with down-dropt lids I sat
In trance; the present scene foregone.
When Hesper rose, on Ararat,
Methought, not English hills, he shone.
Back to the Ark, the waters o'er,
The primal dove pursued her flight:
A branch of that blest tree she bore
Which feeds the Church with holy light.
I heard her rustling through the air
With sliding plume,--no sound beside,
Save the sea-sobbings everywhere,
And sighs of the subsiding tide.
***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY, VOLUME 1,
ISSUE 2, DECEMBER, 1857***
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