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A Morning Talk,


Falsely luxurious, will not man awake,
And, springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy
The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour,
To meditation due, and sacred song?



Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds : pleasant the Sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew.



Suggested by an early sail across the Lake of

Lucern, and a ramble before sun-rise in a remoter part of Switzerland.

THE air is chill. As yet no genial ray
Has reached this spot, or cheered the dew-bent

That bathes my early steps. The rising breeze
Kisses the dark-blue bosom of the lake
That sleeps below me, and reflected gives,
In the fair mirror of its cold clear wave,
Back to the admiring eye the wood, erstwhile
Unmoving on the mountain, and still hushed
As it at midnight slumbered, -that o'erlooks
Its tranquil waters. Not a leaf through all
The wide diversified extent of shade
Breaks on the pleasing stillness :—from my foot,
Falling infrequent by the circling copse,
Where through the sweet-brier the rich hawthorn

blooms, That sound amidst the solitude was heard.

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O how delightful thus at morn to range
The dewy landscape, or the verdant side
Of some lone hill, with flowers enamelled fair,
Of every odour, every form and hue,
From whence the eye unlimited may trace
Near or remoter objects ! Undisturbed,
Without by fightings, or by fears within,
The heart beats calmly, and the spirit wings
An easy flight to realms where sorrow wakes
The weary breast no more. All then is
Taking its colour from what things surround,
The mind's prepared, or to enjoy the smile
Of Consolation, and to blend her hopes
With Hope, as lightly over-head she soars ;
Or yet to let a shade of mournfulness
Darken awhile the couch of her repose;

soon again to burst from out her chains,
And spring with fuller rapture to the scenes
Of pleasantness beyond the storms, that roll
So oft alarming o'er this world of woe.
For, as o’er nature sweeter breaks the beam
Of the fair Moon, when through the midnight

She walks in calmness, girt erewhile with clouds
And darkness, now when Peace resumes on high
The mild benignant sceptre of her sway:


So, in the wondrous labyrinths of grace,
The smile is dearer of Redeeming love,
And warmer falls upon the drooping breast,
If late its absence we were left to mourn.

Distant is seen, reposing in her bower, Where in the ear of Silence she had poured Her tale of bitterness, remembered well! The night's sad minstrel. Melancholy still Her strain; yet not unsoothing as it steals Along some chord of sorrow, which the heart Would cherish-for it tells of dearer days. Memory! how oft, if life no longer clothe With smiles the lips we loved, or animate The form that twined about our soul, dost thou Revisit happier scenes; and fondly, Oh! How fondly, linger o'er the breathless clay! -Faint and more faint the plaintive music, you Erewhile have heard deep-toned and full; yet still It dies upon the distant ear-ere now 'Tis caught no more upon the frowning height Of yon tall cliff that rises dark to view Gently it sinks away--within the vale Hushed now that anthem, for the step of Morn Echoes through her retreat.

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