Beams of the daybreak faint! I hail Your dubious hues, as on the robe Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, I mark your traces pale.
Tired with the taper's sickly light, And with the wearying, number'd night, I hail the streaks of morn divine: And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths
That round my rural casement twine; The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes, It fans my feverish brow,— it calms the mental strife, And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life.
The lark has her gay song begun, She leaves her grassy nest, And soars till the unrisen sun Gleams on her speckled breast.
Now let me leave my restless bed, And o'er the spangled uplands tread; Now through the custom'd wood walk wend; By many a green lane lies my way,
Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, Till on the mountain's summit gray, I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale
It breathes into my breast! My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale, Is with new colours dress'd. Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease!
Come thou, too, on the balmy breeze, Invigorate my frame: I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase, With thee the distant clime will trace
Beyond those clouds of flame. Above, below, what charms unfold In all the varied view! Before me all is burnish'd gold,
Behind the twilight's hue. The mists which on old Night await, Far to the west they hold their state, They shun the clear blue face of Morn;
Along the fine cerulean sky The fleecy clouds successive fly, While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn. And hark! the thatcher has begun
His whistle on the eaves, And oft the hedger's bill is heard Among the rustling leaves. The slow team creaks upon the road,
The noisy whip resounds, The driver's voice, his carol blithe, The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe Mix with the morning's sounds.
Who would not rather take his seat Beneath these clumps of trees, The early dawn of day to greet, And catch the healthy breeze,
Than on the silken couch of Sloth Luxurious to lie; Who would not from life's dreary waste Snatch, when he could, with eager haste,
An interval of joy! To him who simply thus recounts The morning's pleasures o'er, Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close
To ope on him no more. Yet Morning! unrepining still, He'll greet thy beams awhile; And surely thou, when o'er his grave
Solemn the whispering willows wave, Wilt sweetly on him smile: And the pale glowworm's pensive light Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night.
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