Tired with the taper's sickly light, I hail the streaks of morn divine: And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes; The lark has her gay song begun, Now let me leave my restless bed, Now through the custom'd wood-walk wend; By many a green lane lies my way, Where high o'erhead the wild briers bend, I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. Oh, Heav'n! the soft refreshing gale My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale, Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease, Invigorate my frame: I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase, Above, below, what charms unfold In all the varied view! Before me all is burnish'd gold, 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 The slow team creaks upon the road, The noisy whip resounds, The driver's voice, his carol blithe, Who would not rather take his seat The early dawn of day to greet, 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, 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 the pale glow-worm's pensive light Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night. Tired with the taper's sickly light, I hail the streaks of morn divine: And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes; The lark has her gay song begun, And soars till the unrisen sun Gleams on her speckled breast. Now let me leave my restless bed, Now through the custom'd wood-walk wend; Where high o'erhead the wild briers bend, I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. Oh, Heav'n! the soft refreshing gale My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale, Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease, Invigorate my frame: I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase, Above, below, what charms unfold In all the varied view! Before me all is burnish'd gold, 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 driver's voice, his carol blithe, Who would not rather take his seat 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, 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 the pale glow-worm's pensive light Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night. Tired with the taper's sickly light, And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes; The lark has her gay song begun, Gleams on her speckled breast. Now let me leave my restless bed, Now through the custom'd wood-walk wend; Where high o'erhead the wild briers bend, I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. Oh, Heav'n! the soft refreshing gale My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale, Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease, Invigorate my frame: I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase, Above, below, what charms unfold Before me all is burnish'd gold, Behind the twilight's hue. Far to the west they hold their state, |