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| ON the cross-beam under the Old South bell | |
| The nest of a pigeon is builded well. | |
| In summer and winter that bird is there, | |
| Out and in with the morning air; | |
| I love to see him track the street, | 5 |
| With his wary eye and active feet; | |
| And I often watch him as he springs, | |
| Circling the steeple with easy wings, | |
| Till across the dial his shade has passed, | |
| And the belfry edge is gained at last; | 10 |
| ’T is a bird I love, with its brooding note, | |
| And the trembling throb in its mottled throat; | |
| There ’s a human look in its swelling breast, | |
| And the gentle curve of its lowly crest; | |
| And I often stop with the fear I feel,— | 15 |
| He runs so close to the rapid wheel. | |
| Whatever is rung on that noisy bell,— | |
| Chime of the hour, or funeral knell,— | |
| The dove in the belfry must hear it well. | |
| When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, | 20 |
| When the sexton cheerly rings for noon, | |
| When the clock strikes clear at morning light, | |
| When the child is waked with “nine at night,” | |
| When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air | |
| Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,— | 25 |
| Whatever tale in the bell is heard, | |
| He broods on his folded feet unstirred, | |
| Or, rising half in his rounded nest, | |
| He takes the time to smooth his breast, | |
| Then drops again, with filmèd eyes, | 30 |
| And sleeps as the last vibration dies. | |
| Sweet bird! I would that I could be | |
| A hermit in the crowd like thee! | |
| With wings to fly to wood and glen. | |
| Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men; | 35 |
| And daily, with unwilling feet, | |
| I tread, like thee, the crowded street, | |
| But, unlike me, when day is o’er, | |
| Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar: | |
| Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, | 40 |
| Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, | |
| And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. | |
| I would that in such wings of gold | |
| I could my weary heart upfold; | |
| I would I could look down unmoved | 45 |
| (Unloving as I am unloved), | |
| And while the world throngs on beneath, | |
| Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe; | |
| And never sad with others’ sadness, | |
| And never glad with others’ gladness, | 50 |
| Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime, | |
| And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. | |
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