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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
In the deep gloom of retrospective years,
Arose with healing in his wings,' and warmed
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
Σοι τόνδε πλεκτὸν ςέφανον ἐξ ἀκηράτε
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
Musical even to the gates of heaven,
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!
On guardian-wing he mounts, blissful employ !
Hail, gentle spirits! ye who minister
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,