THE BELFRY PIGEON. NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
Reading edition
Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, Me., in 1807, and died near Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, N.Y., in 1867. His father was an editor and founded “The Youth’s Companion.” His sister was an authoress who wrote under the name of “Fanny Fern.”
Nathaniel was graduated at Yale College, and wrote poems and literary essays during his college course. He spent several years in traveling about Europe, and wrote a series of letters for the newspapers during this time.
Mr. Willis published a number of poems, books of travel, and novels. He possessed great natural gifts and there is much beauty in his prose and verse.
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, 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 shadow has passed, And the belfry edge is gained at last. ’Tis 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— 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, When the sexton cheerily 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,— 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 filméd eyes, 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; 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, Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.