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I hail thee, Morn! And slow emerging from the heath-clad hill Love well to meet thee! Sweet thy moments,
framed For meditation-all thy pleasures calm !
Dear is to me the crimson of
yon cloud, 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
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 πλεκτον σέφανον εξ άκαράτε
Λειμώνος, ώ δέσποινα, κοσμήσας φέρω,
Unfeelingly molest your harmless lives :
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, -
Musical even to the gates of heaven,
() 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
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,