Falsely luxurious, will not man awake, Thomson. Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet, Millon. A MORNING WALK: 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 blade That bathes my early steps. The rising breeze That sleeps below me, and reflected gives, Breaks on the pleasing stillness :—from my foot, Where through the sweet-brier the rich hawthorn 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 weary breast no more. All then is peace! 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 heaven 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, 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 Hushed now that anthem, for the step of Morn |