Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse/On the Dove’s Leaving the Ark

by Lydia Sigourney

ON THE DOVE'S LEAVING THE ARK.

STILL did an unseen Being guide
The lonely vessel o'er the tide,
And still, with steady prow, it braves
The fury of the foaming waves.
While fierce the deluge pours its stream,
The thunders roll—the meteors gleam,
When Ocean's mighty cisterns broke,
And earth like a rent cottage shook,
And slowly as its axle turn'd,
The wat'ry planet mov'd and mourn'd;
Though trembling at the tempest's ire,
Or scorching in the lightning's fire,
While holding in her firm embrace
The remnant of a wasted race,
Still o'er the waves the wandering ark
Roam'd like some lone, deserted bark.

But now the storm has hush'd its ire,
The warring elements retire;
And from his curtains, dusk and dun
Look'd forth, once more, th' astonish'd sun.

What saw he there? Young Nature's face
    With smiles, and joy, and beauty fair?
No! not one feature could he trace
    To tell him life was ever there;
Save when that little bark was seen
To shew him where her pride had been.

But now from that secure abode
    A winged stranger went,
And from the casement open'd wide
    A joyful flight she bent;
High mounting seem'd to seek the sky
With forward breast, and sparkling eye,
Like captive set at liberty.

So went the dove on errand kind,
To seek a mansion for mankind,
Tho' scarce her meek eye dar'd to trace
The horrors of that dreadful place.

The waves with white and curling head
Swept above the silent dead,
The heaving billows' dashing surge
Hoarsely swell'd the hollow dirge;

The heavy weight of waters prest
The mighty monarch's mouldering breast,
The giant chief, the sceptred hand,
The lip that pour'd the loud command;
The blooming cheek—the sparkling eye,
Now shrouded in the sea-weed lie.

But still the pensive stranger spread
Her white wing o'er that Ocean dread,
And oft her anxious eye she cast
Across that dark and shoreless waste.
For evening clad the skies in gloom,
And warn'd her of her distant home.
The stars that gemm'd the brow of night
Glanc'd coldly on her wavering flight,
In tears, the moon with trembling gleam
Withdrew her faint and faded beam,
And o'er that vast and silent grave
Was spread the dark and boundless wave.
With beating heart, and anxious ear,
She strove some earthly sound to hear,
In vain—no earthly sound was near.
It seem'd the world's eternal sleep
Had settled o'er that gloomy deep,
Nor slightest breath her bosom cheer'd.
Her own soft wings alone she heard.

But still that fearful dove preserv'd,
    With unabating care,

The olive leaf—the type of peace
    All fragrant, fresh, and fair.

With pain her weary wing she stretch'd
    Over the billows wide,
And oft her panting bosom dropp'd
    Upon the briny tide.

The image of her absent mate,
That cheer'd her as she strove with fate,
    Grew darker on her eye;
It seem'd as if she heard him mourn,
For one who never must return,
    In broken minstrelsey.

Yet ere her pinions ceas'd their flight,
Or clos'd her eye in endless night,
A hand the weary wanderer prest
And drew her to the ark of rest.
Oh! welcome to thy peaceful home,
No more o'er that wild waste to roam.

When from this cell of pain and woe,
Like that weak dove my soul shall go,
And trembling still her flight shall urge,
Along this dark world's doubtful verge
O'er the cold flood, and foaming surge,
Then may the shrinking stranger spy
A pierc'd hand stretching from the sky,

Then hear a voice in accents blest,
"Return—return unto thy rest,"
Long prison'd in a wayward clime,
Long wounded with the thorns of time;
Long chill'd by the wild storms that pour
Around that dark, deceitful shore,
Enter—where thorns shall wound and tempests rage no more.

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