Classic Poem

On an oak-tree sat,
Sat a pair of doves:
And they billed and cooed
And they, heart to heart,
Tenderly embraced
With their little wings;
On them, suddenly,
Darted down a hawk.

One he seized and tore,
Tore the little dove,
With his feathered feet,
Soft blue little dove;
And he poured his blood
Streaming down the tree.
Feathers, too, were strewed
Widely o'er the field;
High away the down
Floated in the air.

Ah! how wept and wept,—
Ah! how sobbed and sobbed
The poor doveling then
For her little dove.

“Weep not, weep not so,
Tender little bird!”
Spake the light young hawk
To the little dove.

“O'er the sea away,
O'er the far blue sea,
I will drive to thee
Flocks of other doves.
From them choose thee then,
Choose a soft and blue,
With his feathered feet,
Better little dove.”

“Fly, thou villain, not
O'er the far blue sea!
Drive not here to me
Flocks of other doves.
Ah! of all thy doves
None can comfort me;
Only he, the father
Of my little ones.”