Verse > Anthologies > Samuel Kettell, ed. > Specimens of American Poetry
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Samuel Kettell, ed.  Specimens of American Poetry.  1829.
 
Oh! That I Had Wings Like a Dove
By George Washington Doane (1790–1859)
 
  WHO that has mingled in the fray,
    Or borne the storms of life,
  Has not desired to flee away
    From all its sin and strife—
  Has not desired, to flee away,        5
    Like yonder startled dove,
  And seek, in some far wilderness,
    A nestling place of love—
Where the tumult, if heard, should excite no alarm,
And the storm and the tempest sweep by, and without harm.        10
 
  Who that has felt the rankling wound
    Of disappointment’s sting,
  Or proved the worse than vanity
    Of every earthly thing,
  Has not desired, like yon sweet dove,        15
    To wander far away,
  And find some desert lodging place,
    And there for ever stray—
Where the vain show of earth should no longer delude.
Where the fiend disappointment should never intrude.        20
 
  Who that has felt the crumbling touch
    Of premature decay,
  Or, sorer far, has mourn’d o’er friends,
    Torn from his heart away,
  Has not desired, like yonder dove,        25
    To seek some lonely nest,
  And, far from earth’s vain fellowship,
    To dwell and be at rest—
Till the summons be heard, that shall bid him depart
And for ever rejoin the beloved of his heart.        30
 
And it shall be—that summons of joy shall be given,
To the converse of saints, to the mansions of heaven,
Where the cross of the sufferer shall no more be borne,
But the crown of the conqueror for ever be worn.
 
Thou, who seek’st this glorious prize,        35
  Ask no more for wings of dove;
Angel-pinion’d, thou shalt rise,
  To the realms of peace and love.
 
Realms, where CHRIST has gone before,
  Blissful mansions to prepare;        40
Realms, where they who serve Him here,
  Shall his power and glory share.
 
There, no battle-fray is heard;
There, no tempest need be fear’d;
Disappointment cannot sting,        45
Banish’d thence each hurtful thing,
Sickness comes not there, nor pain,
Death hath there no dark domain;
Gather’d there, no foot shall rove
Of the happy friends we love;        50
Gather’d there, no soul shall roam;
’T is our own—our FATHER’S HOME.
 
 
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