The shades of night are fleeing fast away
Before the blushing of the morning light;
The diamond stars that gleamed in bright array
Through the lone watches of the silent night,
Are fading dimly, as an orb more bright,
The glorious sun, from the deep coral caves,
Comes leaping forth in swift and tireless flight,
And as the sea his burning bosom laves,
More brightly throws his glance across the bounding waves.
The cheerful songsters of the verdant grove,
Are trilling forth their merry morning lays—
Their matin songs of warm impassioned love,
Which sweetly strike the ear of him who strays
Through the green paths and shady woodland ways,
Drinking deep pleasure from old Nature's wells,
Where the wild cat'ract in the sunlight plays,
Or seated lone, mid dark and mossy dells—
Or on some rocky mount yields to her magic spells.
The red-breast, mounted on some tow'ring tree,
Is chanting loud his merry, mirthful strain;
And the sweet lark's melodious notes of glee,
Are softly floating o'er the dewy plain.
From the broad fields which wave with golden grain,
Echoes the whistle of the timid quail;
And the loud laughter of the reaper train
Sweeps wildly by, borne on the passing gale
O'er woodland hill afar, and flowery-vested vale.
I hear the tuneful sound of humming bees,
And gently blows the soothing summer wind
With murmuring sound among the wavy trees,
And where gay flowers, in wild luxuriance twined,
Shed fragrance on its wings. How dull, how blind
To nature and her charms is he who sleeps
Through the glad morn, nor feels the fragrant wind
That o'er the hills and verdant valleys sweeps,
'Till with wild joy the heart of Nature's lover leaps!
O'er hill and valley far away I've strayed,
And gathered roses wet with morning dew,
To deck the grave where sleeps a gentle maid
Whose tender heart no change nor coldness knew,
But throbbed with love, which warmer, holier grew
As waxed more dim life's faint and flickering light,
And to the close remained unchanged and true—
A holy flame that burned, amid the blight,
Of fell disease and anguish, more divinely bright.
The sun climbs higher in the azure sky—
More fiercely on the earth descend his beams—
The tender flowers hang low their heads and die,
And wearied cattle seek the cooling streams.
Faint grow the ploughmen and their toil-worn teams;
The reapers too have ceased their strains of mirth;
No more the air with sounds of pleasure teems;
And now the shadows traced upon the earth,
And the fierce heat, proclaim the sultry noon-day's birth.
O'er the wide fields the herds have ceased to rove,
The tuneful birds have hushed their morning song,
Silent and lone is the deserted grove
Which late re-echoed to the warbling throng.
Hark! hark! I hear, sounding the vales along,
The mellow horn—the pleasant sound which calls
From the hot fields, the wearied harvest throng
To seek, where the old oak tree's shadow falls,
Their noon-day meal hard by the flowery cottage walls.
Within a green and trellised bower I lie,
Securely sheltered from the solar rays,
And on the bright and glowing summer sky
In contemplation rapt, I fix my gaze,
And scan each fleecy cloud which slowly strays
Like some pure spirit o'er the azure dome,
Making amid its wild and trackless ways,
Its boundless depths, a bright ethereal home
Where lone and airy forms in silent grandeur roam.
And here at noon-day hour I often dream
Of the fair hopes which light life's gloomy waste—
A desart plain o'er which a laughing stream,
Has found a way, its banks with wild flowers graced.
But ah! alas! when the fair stream is traced,
Amid lone sands we find its darksome goal.
O dreary life! in death's cold grasp embraced—
A withered thing, a dark and blotted scroll,
O'er which oblivion's deep and sluggish waters roll.
In early youth upon the sea of life,
We spread our sails, nor dream of pain nor care,
Nor the fierce tempest, nor the raging strife
Which gathers round our bark where'er we steer,
But on we rush, heedless and without fear,
Till, shipwrecked all our hopes, we helpless lie
And feel the bitter pangs of black despair—
Or from the demon strive in vain to fly,
Or rush into the arms of Death and madly die.
The sun is sinking down the western skies—
A holy calm is reigning o'er the earth—
From the green valleys cheerful sounds arise—
The tinkling sheep-bell, and the merry mirth
Of happy children—laughing at the birth
Of some new pleasure. Now the setting sun,
More brightly gleaming o'er the virent earth,
Casts a rich glow of golden light upon
The fleecy clouds, which line the western horizon.
Along yon valley where (a silent grove!)
Those dark green pines in loneliness arise;
With a sad heart in solitude I'll rove,
And darkly muse upon the broken ties
Of happier days—the bright and smiling eyes,
Whose gentle light gave life a summer bloom,
And made this earth seem like a Paradise—
Now cold and rayless in the starless gloom,
Which darkly hovers o'er and shrouds the loathsome tomb.
The twilight shades are gathering o'er the land—
Shrouding the valleys in the gloom of night,
While I beside a murmuring streamlet stand,
And see depart the last faint rays of light
Which linger round yon mountain's topmost height.
'Tis the lone night—another day has gone,
And Time who speeds with never tiring flight,
Beheld a thousand laughing eyes this morn,
That now are sleeping where no day shall ever dawn. |