MORN AND EVEN.
223
A mother's rapture kindles in her eyes,
As to her wearied arms the eager nursling flies.
And see, from labour loosed, the drooping team,
Unharness'd, hasting to their fragrant food,
While, fearful of the hawk's marauding scream,
The broad-wing'd mother folds her helpless brood;
In the cool chambers of the teeming flood
The scaly monsters check their boisterous play,
And, closely curtain'd mid the quiet wood,
The slumbering songsters hush their warbling lay,
While man's sweet hymn of praise doth close the summer day.
