 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
MORNING.
The morn, in purple glories bright,Now burst upon the rear of Night,
Who, gathering up his lurid vest,
Is swift retreating towards the west.
All nature wakes from soft repose,
The flowers their dewy breasts unclose,
Where insect tribes their votaries pay,
And sip their nectared sweets away.
The birds commence their matin song,
And streams of music float along:
The herds their grassy couch forsake,
To crop the mead, or taste the lake,
And all commence the infant day,
As toil or pleasure points the way.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |