LITTLE ONES AT HOME. 167
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When he starts from his humble grassy nest,

And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,

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 lark’s, to thy Maker’s praise.

  

 

  
  
   
   
 
   

WO

“What is that, mother?”
The dove, my son:

And that low, sweet voice, like a widow’s moan,
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.

 
   
  
   
 
  

rg