She holds the dovelets to her tender heart.
No white wing trembles 'neath her pitying palm,
No feather flutters in this last warm nest,
And thus she bears them on—while solemn psalm
Wakes dim, prophetic stirrings in her breast.
Sweet Hebrew mother! many a woman shares,
Thy crucifixion of her hopes and loves,
And in her arms to death unshrinking bears
Her precious things—even her turtle-doves.
But often, ere the temple's marble floor