POETRY.

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WHAT IS IhAIp NAOAIntNt

 nv THE REV. GEORGE W. DoANE. """' !" '""'' ' The lark. my childl The morn has but jus, looked out, and smiled, 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 bright sphere, To warble it out to his Makers car. Ever, my chlld, be thy mora's irstlays Tund, like the larks, tothy Makers praise. What is that, Mother2

 The dove, my son! And that low, sweet voice, like widows 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 cons,an,in love. Wha, is that, MOther9

 . The eagle boy! Proudly careering his course OCjoy. Firm, in his own mountain vigor relying, Breastng the dark storm, the red bolt defying, His wing on the wind, and his eye in the sun, He swerVes not hair, but bears onward, right on. Boy, may the eagles flight ever be thine, Onward and upward, and true to the line. What is that, Mother?

 The swan, my love! He is floating down from his native grove, No loved one now, no nesting nigh, He is floating down by himselfto die: Death darkens his eye, unplumes his wings Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. Live 90, my love, that when death shall come, Swan.like and sweet, it may wait thee home!