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 larks, to thy maker’s praise.
* * * * *
What is that, mother? The Swan, my love!
He is floating down from his native grove:
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,—