THE SONG OF THE BIRDS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVI, Issue 20235, 20 April 1929, Page 4 (Supplement)

THE SONG OF THE BIRDS.

BY G. W. DOANE.

What is that, mother ? The lark, my child The morn has but just looked out and smiled, When ho 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.

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 absent 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; Firm on his own mountain-vigour relying. Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying; ITis wing on the wind, and 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 'inc. What is that, mother? The swan, my love! Ho is floating down from his native grove; No loved one now, no nestling night— Ho is floating down, by himself, to die! Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings. Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings. Live so, irn son, that when death shall

Rome, Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee homo'