MORNING DAWN.
Along the turfy heath cool blows the gale,
And dewy odours scent the morning air;
No sound I hear, save from the willow’d vale
The tinkle of a brook, that murmurs there.
In lonely silence wrapt, yon little mill
Looks pensive as the moulder’d pile below;
Shades hide the forest, and the misty hill
Still keeps retiring Night upon its brow.
O’er the chill earth all comfortless, I tread;
The Eye of Nature beams in other skies:
I’ll seek yon bending mountain’s lofty head,
And peep upon his beauties ere he rise.
Forbear!—expiring stars proclaim him nigh,
Faintly they wink, and lose their silver light;
The streaky orient wears a deepen’d dye,
Green looks the upland, and the river bright.
O’er the brown wood he sheds a trembling ray,
And with his tresses wipes the tearful thorn;
Shrill soars the lark to greet the early day,
And herald to the world return of Morn.
For the New-York Weekly Magazine.