When the Morning starts up from her couch on the deep

When the Morning starts up from her couch on the deep, Where through the dim night hours, she pillows her sleep, I start from my slumbers, and hie me away Where the white torrent dashes its feathery spray,— I quaff the fresh stream as it bursts from the hill,— I pluck the fresh flowers that spring by the rill,— I watch the gray clouds as they curl round the peak That rises high over them, barren and bleak; And I think how the worldling who courts fortune's smile, In his heart, like that peak, may be lonely the while; And then my own heart sings aloud in its joy, That Heaven has made me a free shepherd boy!