MORNING WALK IN JUNE.
75
Ah! who can paint like this?
A glimpse of Eden now I view,
As seen the opening vista through,
Beyond the steep abyss.
A glimpse of Eden now I view,
As seen the opening vista through,
Beyond the steep abyss.
My eye upon a garden fair
Now rests. To what can I compare
This rural, charming place?
What can I of its priestess[1] say?—
O could my pen my thoughts obey,
To paint her form and face!
Now rests. To what can I compare
This rural, charming place?
What can I of its priestess[1] say?—
O could my pen my thoughts obey,
To paint her form and face!
Come, come ye muses, all inspire,
Come tune this morn my simple lyre,
That I may sing her praise;
O bid your gifted son[2] of song,
Who dares unto her race belong,
His thrilling notes to raise.
Come tune this morn my simple lyre,
That I may sing her praise;
O bid your gifted son[2] of song,
Who dares unto her race belong,
His thrilling notes to raise.
O bid him sing her virtues, skill,
That might a holy volume fill,
And faithfully portray
A life of piety and love;
Refinement more than all above,
Her charities display.
That might a holy volume fill,
And faithfully portray
A life of piety and love;
Refinement more than all above,
Her charities display.
That garden, arched by leaf and vine,
Fulfills almost my dreams divine,
Fulfills almost my dreams divine,
