University of Virginia Library

MORNING!

Morning!—Morning! how dost thou
Now dart from Old Night's furrowed brow,
Like that fair shape which fabled was
In the olden days, (when fancy's glass
Showed all things by its aid—descried,
Raised, mystified, and magnified)
To spring from Jove's all awful head—
Where the clouding shadows dread
Of curls ambrosial, veiled in gloom,
The thunder-forming frown of doom!
Morning!—Morning!—yet delay,
Nor shine too soon to perfect day!
Thou art so enchanting now—
With thy pearl wreath round thy brow,
With thy beauty-breathing face,
All youthfulness and glowing grace,
Thy dews, thy clouds, thy lovely looks,
Mirrored in the woodland brooks;
Thy gentle frowns, thy tears, thy smiles,
Thine ever changing charming wiles—
That we fain would have thee stay—
Nor ask the approach of perfect day!
Wild thou art, untamed and free—
All thy Soul is ecstacy.
Morning!—Morning!—could'st thou last,
Half our sorrows sure were pass'd!
Who can grieve in such an hour,
Fancies bright, a dazzling shower,
Seem to be twin-born with thee,
Lightening o'er reality.
Fancies glad and sweet and bright,
Forgetting disappointment's blight,
In thine hours of freshness start
To the healed and heaving heart.
Scattering, in profusion thick—
Ever ceaselessly and quick—
Like summer's hours, the glad and free,
Their roses o'er reality—
O'er harsh reality, whose reign
Is of penance and of pain;
Whose paths are all with thorns o'erspread,
And withered leaves and blossoms dead;
But these sweet fancies scatter free
Their roses o'er reality,
And make it seem a lovely thing,
Lending it their hues of spring—
Their buoyant airs—their changeful gleams,
Till seems it fair as fleeting dreams!
Yet lasting and substantial too—
Certain, faithful, fixed, and true,
As the heart desires should be
Its well prized felicity.
Morning, Morning, who can weep,
When thy smiles are reddening deep.
O'er the bower and o'er the stream,
And Nature shineth like a dream!
Born that instant from the brain,
Ne'er to look so fair again!
Morning, Morning—pause—Oh! stay,
Pass not to the perfect day.
Morning!—Morning!—part not yet,
Cares the busy day beset;
All our troubles and our woes
Round us then too darkly close.
Morning, Morning, pause and stay—
What! already flown away?
The sky a hue more settled wears—
Less fresh and free the wandering airs
Breathe against the heated brow—
'Tis the noontide's fulness now.
Morning!—Morning!—thou art past
Into perfect day at last!