Your green embowering groves, and smoothly spread
Your waters, glistening in a silver sheet.
The morning is a season of delight—
The morning is the self-possession'd hour—
'Tis then that feelings, sunk, but unsubdued,
Feelings of purer thoughts, and happier days,
Awake, and, like the sceptred images
Of Banquo's mirror, in succession pass!
And, first of all, and fairest, thou dost pass
In Memory's eye, beloved! though now afar