BUT who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd, the sheepfold's simple 'bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide. The hollow murmur of the ocean tide; The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark; Crown'd with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; Through rustling corn the hare, astonish'd, springs; Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour. MORNING WALK. Beattie. HE morning hath not lost her virgin blush, This healthful comfort of the happy swain, Who from his hard but peaceful bed roused up, In morning's exercise saluted is By a full choir of feather'd choristers, Wedding their notes to the enamour'd air! There Nature, in her unaffected dress, Plaited with valleys, and emboss'd with hills, Enlaced with silver streams, and fringed with woods, Chamberlayne. A SUMMER MORNING. ND soon, observant of approaching day, At first faint gleaming in the dappled east; Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents shine; And from the bladed field the fearful hare Limps, awkward: while along the forest glade At early passenger. Music awakes The native voice of undissembled joy; And thick around the woodland hymns arise. Betoken glad. Lo! now, apparent all, Aslant the dew-bright earth and colour'd air, He looks in boundless majesty abroad; And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams, High-gleaming from afar. MORNING. Thomson. T was a lovely Morning;-all was calm, 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 mark'd by many a filmy streak, And every gentle sound which broke the hush Barton. MORNING. WIFTLY from the mountain's brow, And the peeping sunbeam now Philomel forsakes the thorn, And the lark, to meet the Morn, Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. From the low-roof'd cottage ridge, See the chattering swallow spring : Now the pine-tree's waving top Gently greets the Morning gale : Kidlings now begin to crop Daisies in the dewy dale. |