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THE MOTHER AND CHILD.

Is flowing out from her gentle breast, Constant and pure by that lonely nest, As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, For the distant 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 in his own mountain vigour relying, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying; His 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 line.

What is that, mother?

The Swan, my love. He is floating down from his native grove, No loved one now, no nestling nigh; He is floating down by himself to die; Death darkens his eye, it unplumes his wings, Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings. Live so, my son, that when death shall come, Swan- like and sweet, it may waft thee home. DONNE.