M I. ORNING again breaks through the gates of heaven The vassal clouds, which bow as she draws nigh, From Nature's old cathedral sweetly ring The wild-bird choirs-burst of the woodland band, Green-hooded nuns, who 'mid the blossoms sing; Their leafy temple, gloomy, tall, and grand, Pillared with oaks, and roofed with Heaven's own hand. Hark! how the anthem rolls through arches dun:"Morning again is come to light the land; The great world's Comforter, the mighty Sun, III. Those dusky foragers, the noisy rooks, Have from their green high city-gates rushed out, No fairy thunder o'er the air is rolled: The drooping buds their crimson lips still pout, Those stars of earth, the daisies white, unfold, And soon the buttercups will give back "gold for gold." IV. Hark! hark! the lark sings 'mid the silvery blue; She seems the first that does for pardon sue, As though the guilty stain which lurks below Had touched the flowers that droop about her brow, When she all night slept by the daisies' side; And now she soars where purity doth flow, Where new-born light is with no sin allied, And pointing with her wings heavenward our thoughts would guide. V. On the far sky leans the old ruined mill. Through its rent sails the broken sunbeams glow, Gilding the trees that belt the lower hill, And the old thorns which on its summit grow. Only the reedy marsh that sleeps below, With its dwarf bushes, is concealed from view; And now a struggling thorn its head doth show, Another half shakes off the smoky blue, Just where the dusty gold streams through the heavy dew. VI. And there the hidden river lingering dreams,— You scarce can see the banks which round it lie; They look like clouds shook from the unsunned sky, VII. A chequered light streams in between the leaves, A little bird now hops beside the brook, 66 Peaking" about like an affrighted nun: And ever as she drinks doth upward look, Twitters and drinks again, then seeks her cloistered nook. VIII. What varied colors o'er the landscape play! The rutted roads did never seem so clean; IX. A cottage girl trips by with side-long look, The flowers which downward look in that clear bed, The very birds which o'er its brightness fly : She parts her loose-blown hair, then wondering passes by X. How sweet those rural sounds float by the hill! The grasshopper's shrill chirp rings o'er the ground, The jingling sheep-bells are but seldom still, The clapping gate closes with hollow bound, There's music in the church-clock's measured sound. The ring-dove's song, how breeze-like comes and goes! Now here, now there, it seems to wander round: The red cow's voice along the upland flows; His bass the brindled bull from the far meadow lows. XI. Where soars that spire, our rude forefathers prayed: O'er rich and poor, marble and earthly mound, XII. See yonder smoke, before it curls to heaven, So on the earth again doth prostrate fall, And 'mid the bending green each sin recall. Now from their beds the cottage-children rise, Roused by some early playmate's noisy bawl; And, on the door-step standing, rub their eyes, Stretching their little arms, and gaping at the skies. XIII. The leaves "drop, drop," and dot the crispëd stream While purple dragon-flies their wings display: XIV. All things, save man, this summer morn rejoice: XV. Here might a sinner humbly kneel and pray, And worship Him who guardeth us alway!— Who hung these lands with green, this sky with blue, Who spake, and from these plains huge cities grew; Who made thee, O my Country! what thou art, And asks but gratitude for all His due. The Giver, God! claims but the beggar's part, |