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A Morning Walk,


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 un 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

blade 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 håwthorn

blooms, That sound amidst the solitude was heard

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 breast no more. All then is peace! weary 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; But 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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