 | [Poems by Clark in] The laurel |  |
218
A MORNING HYMN.
'T is the rich hour, when gladsome waters leaping,
Smile in the beauty of the gorgeous sky:
When golden clouds, o'er distant summits sleeping,
Like spirit-islands, bathed in glory lie;—
When to the South, to swelling gem-buds given,
Come the bland kisses of the loving air,
Burdened with balm, and wandering forth in heaven,
While sounds of brooks and birds are mingling there.
Smile in the beauty of the gorgeous sky:
When golden clouds, o'er distant summits sleeping,
Like spirit-islands, bathed in glory lie;—
When to the South, to swelling gem-buds given,
Come the bland kisses of the loving air,
Burdened with balm, and wandering forth in heaven,
While sounds of brooks and birds are mingling there.
Wake! ye that slumber! and a glorious vision,
Richer than fancy to the mind can bring,
Will on the observant eye in peace have risen
'Till gushes from the heart, Affection's spring:
For the broad sunlight, in rich floods descending,
Each hill and vale paints deep in quivering gold,
Gay light and music in one flow are blending,
Where amber clouds their graceful skirts unfold.
Richer than fancy to the mind can bring,
Will on the observant eye in peace have risen
'Till gushes from the heart, Affection's spring:
For the broad sunlight, in rich floods descending,
Each hill and vale paints deep in quivering gold,
Gay light and music in one flow are blending,
Where amber clouds their graceful skirts unfold.
219
And while from vale to vale, like incense given,
Sounds on the breeze of morn the Sabbath bell,
The chastened soul may lift its dream to heaven
Till the rapt heart seems kindling in the spell;
While, touched with day-beams, grove, and fount and river,
In the soft beauty of Contentment sleep,
How should man conquer Passion's stormy fever
And drink of peacefulness so pure and deep?
Sounds on the breeze of morn the Sabbath bell,
The chastened soul may lift its dream to heaven
Till the rapt heart seems kindling in the spell;
While, touched with day-beams, grove, and fount and river,
In the soft beauty of Contentment sleep,
How should man conquer Passion's stormy fever
And drink of peacefulness so pure and deep?
Why, when the anthems of the streams are swelling,
And the fresh blossoms odorous tribute yield:—
When gales delicious of sweet buds are telling,
That humbly blooming, bend in every field?—
Why should Man's heart no pure emotions cherish—
Why should its reverence and affection die;—
When fragile birds and blossoms, born to perish,
Make glad the chambers of the open sky!
And the fresh blossoms odorous tribute yield:—
When gales delicious of sweet buds are telling,
That humbly blooming, bend in every field?—
Why should Man's heart no pure emotions cherish—
Why should its reverence and affection die;—
When fragile birds and blossoms, born to perish,
Make glad the chambers of the open sky!
| [Poems by Clark in] The laurel | |