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I hail thee, Morn!

And slow emerging from the heath-clad hill

Love well to meet thee! Sweet thy moments,


For meditation-all thy pleasures calm!


Dear is to me the crimson of
Responsive to the universal smile
Of joy, that cheers the world awaking round,
Gladdening and brightening from thy radiant car.
Oft as I view thee coming, I survey


In the deep gloom of retrospective years,
With humble gratitude, I trust, and praise,
THAT MORN!what time the Sun of Righte-


Arose with healing in his wings,' and warmed
My heart with pledges of a Saviour's love
Dispelled the darkness that enveloped me—
Bade the bleak desert of this bosom smile,
And planted on it Sharon's rose-disarmed
'The king of terrors', who so late had hung,
Wild and dismaying, o'er my restless couch-
Guided my hopes to heaven-allured my soul
From time and from its baubles fixed my eye
On Calvary-and shed the peace of God
Upon my path!

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I love thee, Morning, well! And, slow emerging from the eastward hill, Love well to meet thy mild benignant form. Thus sweet be still thy moments! Calm as these Be all thy pleasures still!

The flowers are cold

Upon the meadow's lap; and, heavy yet
With dew, seem as they wept for the approach
Of Day. How close they fold their fragrant breasts,
Timid and shrinking from the chilling air!
No bee meanwhile disturbs them, or alarms
On early search their fears: though oft amid
Their vernal sweets, meanwhile unculled for here
The shepherd seldom feeds his gentle flock,
And the scythe not yet has come the busy tribes
Wander at will, lured by the chalice, rich
In honied treasure.* Ah! may no rude hind

Σοι τόνδε πλεκτὸν ςέφανον ἐξ ἀκηράτε
Λειμῶνος, ὦ δέσποινα, κοσμήσας φέρω,
̓́Ενθ ̓ οὔτε ποιμὴν ἀξιοῖ φέρβειν βοτὰ,
Οὐδ ̓ ἦλθέ πω σίδηρος, ἀλλ ̓ ἀκήρατον
Μέλισσα λειμῶν ἠρινὸν διέρχεται,
Αἰδὼς δὲ ποταμίαισι κηπεύει δρόσοις.

Unfeelingly molest your harmless lives:

No storm, untimely, blight your modest charms, Or crush your balmy beauties in its ire!

Light from her bed upsprings the lark. Away She flies, as if she hurried to her hymn

Of praise, afraid to lose an instant, due
To Him who made her. High she soars and sings,
And sings and soars, till out of human sight
She breathes, unhindered by the jarring sounds,
The din and discord of this warring world,
To God the homage of her matin-lay.
Not unaccepted, to his throne ascends
The incense of her morning-sacrifice;
While upward still, as conscious that her voice
Is heard in her Creator's presence, joying,
Untired she traces her aërial way,

"This crown,-
Inwoven with the various flowers that deck
The unshorn mead, where never shepherd dared
To feed his flock, and the scythe never came,
But o'er its vernal sweets unculled the bee
Ranges at will, and modest nature rolls
Th' irriguous streamlet-lady, I have twined,
And bring to thee."

Musical even to the gates of heaven,
Louder and sweeter singing as she goes.

O why does man not mark her? Why attends He not that voice instructive? Why does he, Unlike this blithesome monitress, begin

The day without a hymn of thanks; nor chaunt His note of gratitude for mercies past,

For present blessings, and that gladdening hope, Which ne'er shall cover, though one cheek, with shame ?

-How sweet her carol in the distance dies!
So to fond Fancy, though in high degree,
And leaving thought in her extremest range,
Whatever she of harmony may deem,
Or sweetest tones from sweetest lyre educed
By hands well skilled to wake the living chord,
Fall on the seraph's ear the songs of heaven,
To golden harps attuned, what time afar
The hills of Paradise are seen, as glad

On guardian-wing he mounts, blissful employ !
Bearing his ransomed burthen to the skies.

Hail, gentle spirits! ye who minister
Unto salvation's heirs. How good, how kind,
Thus to attend the devious path they tread!

Yet ah! how often must th' unbidden tear,

-If tear, perchance, may dim an angel's eye. Bedew your cheeks, while ye behold your charge Cleaving to earth, and fondly lingering here 'Midst the poor pleasures time and sense afford ! O 'tis reviving it is sweet to know Your watchful legions round the spirit stand, When the last summons echoes on her ear To quit terrestrial scenes ! Without your guidance, Say! to what climes unvisited, untried, Would she direct her dubious flight ? how find The mansions of her Saviour's rest? -no doubt, By him condueted she had reached his joy: Yet still 'tis soothing to a dying heart, To think ye waiting to convey it home !

And now a moment, shadowed by the veil Of passing cloud, the sun is hid from view, And a fresh breeze among the piny tops Of yon deep wood is stirring. But anon, The dark opaque dissolving, like the wreath, Which winter o'er the saddened world had thrown Warmed by the genial airs of spring, he's seen Serenely beaming upon hill and dale That late had mourned his absence, and in gloom Had sate. Once more the conscious Orient smiles,

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