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THE ROSY DAWN.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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1

THE ROSY DAWN.

The rosy Dawn creeps down the mountain side,
Touching with light green copse and grassy lea,
The world to life is wakening far and wide,
And songs are heard from every bush and tree.
Come, let us hasten where the white thorn blows,
Or to the meadows where the cowslip grows.
Up, up! the fields are fresh with dews of night,—
And hear you not the strains of Corin's flute?
They take the purple hills with such delight
That not an echo in the glades is mute.
And earth and air and sky are filled with sound,
Great Nature's Hymn, sweet, passionate, profound.
Come 'neath the temple of the morning sky,
And let us pay our orisons to Heaven;
The lark is singing as she soars on high,
Leaving the nest to which she dropped at even.

2

If only prayer and praise be pure and true,
They too will rise into the vaulted blue.
What shall our organ be? The winds that blow;
And what our choir? The breeze's silver chime;
While clear-voiced streams that rippling gently flow,
Will move with us in sweet melodious time.
O come, and we shall keep glad festival,
And heaven's high gate will open at our call.