 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
150
SONG OF MORNING.
I come, I come from the fields of light;
My herald-star chases the shadows of night;
The dew of the evening lies thick on the grass
Still gemming the pathway my footstep must pass;
While the wild flower joyously raises its head,
And breathes its rich sweets 'neath my echoless tread.
My herald-star chases the shadows of night;
The dew of the evening lies thick on the grass
Still gemming the pathway my footstep must pass;
While the wild flower joyously raises its head,
And breathes its rich sweets 'neath my echoless tread.
O'er gardens just waking from slumber I fling
The perfumes of heaven from my noiseless wing;
My breath is crisping the silent lake,
Till its gentle wavelets in brightness break;
And the soft air is mingled with music and glee,
By the song of the lark and the voice of the bee.
The perfumes of heaven from my noiseless wing;
My breath is crisping the silent lake,
Till its gentle wavelets in brightness break;
And the soft air is mingled with music and glee,
By the song of the lark and the voice of the bee.
But man, who alone of all creatures may raise
To the glories of heaven his uplifted gaze—
Is joy in his heart? does delight fill his eye
When he sees my glad footsteps in brightness pass by?
Like the song of the bird and the bee, does his voice
In the pride of new life and new vigor rejoice?
To the glories of heaven his uplifted gaze—
Is joy in his heart? does delight fill his eye
When he sees my glad footsteps in brightness pass by?
Like the song of the bird and the bee, does his voice
In the pride of new life and new vigor rejoice?
O, no; for too often my earliest glance
But rouses his soul from sleep's bright-visioned trance;
And coldly he turns from the sweet dreams of night
To the splendors that waken with morning's glad light;
And the sunbeam small pleasure to him can impart,
When it wakes to new sorrows his slumbering heart.
But rouses his soul from sleep's bright-visioned trance;
And coldly he turns from the sweet dreams of night
To the splendors that waken with morning's glad light;
And the sunbeam small pleasure to him can impart,
When it wakes to new sorrows his slumbering heart.
151
How often has burst forth the weariful sigh,
As the bloom and the freshness of morning came by,
Outshining the light of the student's pale lamp,
But chilling the ardor no darkness could damp;
While with loathing he looks on the glorious ray
That calls him from intellect's treasures away.
As the bloom and the freshness of morning came by,
Outshining the light of the student's pale lamp,
But chilling the ardor no darkness could damp;
While with loathing he looks on the glorious ray
That calls him from intellect's treasures away.
How oft have the sweets of my perfumed breath
Fanned the clustering locks on the forehead of death,
And played in the folds of the snow-white vest
That encircled the form for the earth-worm dressed,
Till it seemed to the mourner's bewildered eye
As if moved by the life-pulse again strong and high!
Fanned the clustering locks on the forehead of death,
And played in the folds of the snow-white vest
That encircled the form for the earth-worm dressed,
Till it seemed to the mourner's bewildered eye
As if moved by the life-pulse again strong and high!
And they who in dreams see the gentle smile
That never their waking thoughts more shall beguile;
The broken in health, and the wearied in heart—
O, joy they not rather to see me depart?
And smile they not more at night's gathering gloom,
Since another day brings them more nigh to the tomb?
That never their waking thoughts more shall beguile;
The broken in health, and the wearied in heart—
O, joy they not rather to see me depart?
And smile they not more at night's gathering gloom,
Since another day brings them more nigh to the tomb?
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |