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,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,