sorrowed over all evil. [Among my mother's early letters to my father, this poem, written in her fine, delicate hand upon old-fashioned fancy note paper, was evidently her expression of this feeling.] THE SERAPH AND THE DOVE. A Seraph strayed to earth from upper spheres, Impelled by inward motion, vague yet strong: He knew not wherefore he must leave the throng Of kindred hierarchs for a world of tears: But, mailed in proof divine, he felt no fears, Obedient to an impulse clear of wrong: And so he ceased awhile his heavenly song, To measure his immortal life by years. His arched brow uprose, a throne of light, Where ordered thought a rule superior held; Within his eyes celestial splendors dwell'd, Ready to glow and bless with subject might, When he should find why God had sent him here, Shot like a star from out his native sphere. He was alone; he stood apart from men: His simple nature could not solve their ways; For he had lived a life of love and praise, And they forgot that God their Source had been. So mused he on the visions of his mind, Which, wondrous fair, recalled his home above: He wist not why he was to space confin'd, But waited, trusting in Omnific love. Then lo! came fluttering to his arms a Dove, Which for her foot had never yet found rest: The Seraph folded her within his breast, And as he felt the brooding warmth, he conscious, smiled and said, "Yes, Father! Heaven can only be where kindred spirits wed!" ["My Dove" was one of my father's names for my mother; he found her a seal with a dove upon it. She several times referred to this title with joy, in talks with me.]