The silver lute of the young morning star
Thrilled faintly into silence, as the dawn
With red lip kissed the mountain’s snowy brow,
Which, bathed in softest slumber, blushed to own
The gentle pressure. As the waves of light
Broke o’er the margin of a darkened world,
In golden ripples, faintly they revealed
Bright uplands, where the spirit of the mist
Hung low upon the bosom of the hills,
And wept soft dewy tears, while o’er their crests