I looked on the peasant's lowly cot-
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot;
But a gleam of thee on its casement fell,
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell.
To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart;
And thou scornest not, from thy pomp, to shed
A tender light on the ruin's head.
Thou tak'st through the dim church-aisle thy way,
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to-day,
And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old
Are bathed in a flood as of burning gold.
And thou turnest not from the humblest grave,
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave;
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest,
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.
Sunbeam of Summer! oh! what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea?—
One thing is like thee, to mortals given,
The Faith, touching all things with hues of heaven.
IGHT wanes—the vapours round the mountains curled
Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world.
Man has another day to swell the past,
And lead him near to little but his last;
But mighty nature bounds as from her birth,
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth;
Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam,
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
Immortal man! behold her glories shine,
And cry, exulting inly, "They are thine!"
Gaze on, while yet thy gladdened eye may see;
A morrow comes when they are not for thee:
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier,
Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear;
Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall,
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all;
But creeping things shall revel in their spoil,
And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil.
EHOLD glad nature's triumph! Lo, the sun Hath burst the pall of night, and o'er the earth Reviving radiance scattered! Sleep hath done Her death-resembling reign, and thoughts have birth That thrill the grateful heart with secret mirth! Like glittering flowers that deck the dewy ground, How Fancy's bright-hued images abound, And mortals own the glory and the worth Of that proud boon-existence. All around, Unnumbered charms arise at every sight and sound.
The scene is steeped in beauty; and my soul, No longer lingering in the gloom of care, Doth greet creation's smile. The grey clouds roll, Even from the mountain peaks, and melt in air! The landscape looks an Eden! Who could wear The frown of sorrow now? This glorious hour Reveals the ruling God! The heavens are bare! Each sunny stream and blossom-mantled bower Breathes of pervading love, and shows the power That spoke him into life hath blessed man's earthly dower.
T was a lovely morning;—all was calm,
As if creation, thankful for repose,
In renovated beauty, breathing balm
And blessedness around, from slumber rose;
Joyful once more to see the east unclose
Its gates of glory:-yet subdued and mild,
Like the soft smile of Patience, amid woes
By Hope and Resignation reconciled,
That Morning's beauty shone, that landscape's charm beguiled
The heavens were marked by many a filmy streak,
Even in the orient; and the sun shone through
Those lines, as Hope upon a mourner's cheek
Sheds, meekly chastened, her delightful hue.
From graves and meadows, all empearled with dew,
Rose silvery mists,—no eddying wind swept by,—
The cottage chimneys, half concealed from view
By their embowering foliage, sent on high
Their pallid wreathes of smoke, unruffled to the sky.
And every gentle sound which broke the hush
Of morning's still serenity, was sweet;
The skylark overhead; the speckled thrush,
Who now had taken with delight his seat
Upon the slender larch, the day to greet;
The starling, chattering to her callow young;
And that monotonous lay, which seems to fleet
Like echo through the air, the cuckoo's song,
Was heard at times far off the leafy woods among.
HE eyelids of the Morning are awake;
The dews are disappearing from the grass;
The sun is o'er the mountains; and the trees,
Moveless, are stretching through the blue of heaven,
The shadows of the twilight fleet away,.
And draw their misty legion to the west,
Seen for a while, 'mid the salubrious air,
Suspended in the silent atmosphere,
As in Medina's mosque Mahomet's tomb.
Up from the coppice, on exulting wing,
Mounts, mounts the skylark through the clouds of dawn,—
The clouds, whose snow-white canopy is spread
Athwart, yet hiding not at intervals,
The azure beauty of the summer sky;
And, at far distance heard, a bodiless note
Pours down, as if from cherub strayed from heaven!—
Maternal nature! all thy sights and sounds
Now breathe repose, and peace, and harmony.
The lake's unruffled bosom, cold and clear,
Expands beneath me, like a silver veil
Thrown o'er the level of subjacent fields,
Revealing on its conscious countenance,
The shadows of the clouds that float above:-
Upon its central stone the heron sits
Stirless, as in the wave its counterpart,-
Looking, with quiet eye, towards the shore
Of dark green copse-wood, dark, save here and there,
Where spangled with the broom's bright aureate flowers
And now the wood engirds me, the tall stems
Of birch and beach-tree hemming me around,
Like pillars of some natural temple vast;
And here and there, some giant pines ascend,
Briareus-like, amid the stirless air,
High stretching; like a good man's virtuous thoughts
Forsaking earth for heaven. The cushat stands,
Amid the topmost boughs, with azure vest,
And neck aslant, listening the amorous coo
Of her his mate, who, with maternal wing,
Wide-spread, sits brooding on opponent tree.
Why, from the rank grass underneath my feet,
Aside on ruffled pinion dost thou start,
Sweet minstrel of the Morn? Behold her nest,
Thatched o'er with cunning skill, and there, her young
With sparkling eye, and thin-fledged russet wing;
Younglings of air! probationers of song!
From lurking dangers may he rest secure,
Secure from prowling weasel, or the tread
Of steed incautious, wandering 'mid the flowers!
Secure beneath the fostering care of her
Who warmed you into life, and gave you birth;
Till plumed and strong unto the buoyant air,
Ye spread your equal wings, and to the Morn,
Lifting your freckled bosoms, dew-besprent,
Salute, with spirit-stirring song, the man
Wayfaring lonely. Hark! the striderous neigh!
There, on his dogrose fence, the chestnut foal,
Shaking his silver forelock, proudly stands,—
To snuff the balmy fragrance of the Morn :-
Up comes his ebon compeer, and, anon,
Around the field in mimic chase they fly,
Startling the echoes of the woodland gloom.—
Farewell, ye placid scenes! amid the land
Ye smile, an island solitude: the voice
Of peace-destroying man is seldom heard
Amid your landscapes. Beautiful ye raise
Your glen-embowering groves, and smoothly spread
Your waters, glistening in a silver sheet.
The Morning is a season of delight-
The Morning is the self-possessioned hour—
'Tis then that feelings, sunk, but unsubdued,
Feelings of purer thoughts, and happier (lays,
Awake, and, like the sceptred images
Of Banquo's mirror, in succession pass.
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