Morning

The spicy morn, with purple ray, Faintly illumes the eastern skies, While from each dew besprinkled spray Ambrosial odours gently rise;

Silence still holds the wide domain, The Zephyrs slumber in the shade; The stream that creeps along the plain, Scarce murmurs to the list'ning glade:

No songstress breathes her artless lay, No footsteps print the dewy vale, O'er the broad lawn no lambkins stray, For sleep still nods o'er hill and dale,

Where pensive Grief forgets to sigh, There Morpheus still thy station keep, And with thy signet seal the eye, The eye which only wakes to weep.

But while I speak, the prospects change, The warblers dance upon the air, The fleecy tribe the pastures range, Refresh'd with sleep, and free from care:

All nature bows—all nature sings, And to its author homage pays; Each part a grateful tribute brings, The whole creation gives him praise.

Be thou not, oh! my languid soul, An indolent spectator here, While clouds of cheerful incense roll To him who rules above our sphere:

Before him pour the lay sincere, When Morning's beams thine eyes shall bless, And let the shades of Ev'ning hear That still thou dost his name confess.