And a hymn in his heart to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lyre-bird's, to thy Maker's praise."

"What is that, mother?"
"The dove, my son--
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,

[Illustration]

Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

"What is that, mother?"
"The eagle, boy--
Proudly careering his course of joy.

[Illustration]

Firm on his mountain vigor relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy! may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line!"