MORNING.
"God made the country, and man made the town."
Cowper.
Morn breaketh on the mountains. Their grey peaks
Catch its first tint, and through the moss that veils
Their rugged foreheads, smile, as when the stars
Together sang, at young creation's birth.
Fresh gales awake, and the tall pines bow down
To their soft visit; and the umbrageous oaks
Spread their broad banners, while each leaf doth lift
Itself, as for a blessing. Through the boughs
Of the cool poplars, steals a sighing sound,
The leaping rills make music, and the groves
Pour from their cloistered nests a warbling hymn.
From all her deep recesses, Nature's voice,
Like the clear horn amid the Alpine hills,
Is praise to God, at this blest hour of morn.
Morn cometh to the cottage. Through its door
Peep ruddy faces. Infant mirth awakes.
The fair young milk-maid o'er the threshold trips,
The shepherd's dog goes forth, the lamb sports gay,
And the swain dips his glittering scythe in dews,
Which like bright tears the new-shorn grass doth shed:
Joy breathes around, while Health, with glowing lip
And cheek embrowned, and Industry, with song
Of jocund chorus, hail the King of Day.
Morn looketh on the city. See how slow
