Poems Sigourney 1834/Morning
MORNING.
"God made the country, and man made the town."
Cowper.
Morn breaketh on the mountains. Their grey peaks
Catch its first tint, and through the moss that veils
Their rugged foreheads, smile, as when the stars
Together sang, at young creation's birth.
Fresh gales awake, and the tall pines bow down
To their soft visit; and the umbrageous oaks
Spread their broad banners, while each leaf doth lift
Itself, as for a blessing. Through the boughs
Of the cool poplars, steals a sighing sound,
The leaping rills make music, and the groves
Pour from their cloistered nests a warbling hymn.
From all her deep recesses, Nature's voice,
Like the clear horn amid the Alpine hills,
Is praise to God, at this blest hour of morn.
Morn cometh to the cottage. Through its door
Peep ruddy faces. Infant mirth awakes.
The fair young milk-maid o'er the threshold trips,
The shepherd's dog goes forth, the lamb sports gay,
And the swain dips his glittering scythe in dews,
Which like bright tears the new-shorn grass doth shed:
Joy breathes around, while Health, with glowing lip
And cheek embrowned, and Industry, with song
Of jocund chorus, hail the King of Day.
Morn looketh on the city. See how slow
Its ponderous limbs unfold. On arid sands
Thus the gorged boa, from some deep repast
Uncoils his length. Heaven smileth on those spires;
But their loud bells, and organ-pipes, and hymns
Of high response, are silent. Flame hath fallen
Wherewith to kindle incense, but man locks
His bosom's altar, and doth sell for sleep
What Esau sold for pottage. Stately domes,
And marble columns greet the rising sun,
Yet not like Memnon's statute utter forth
A gratulating tone. Aurora glides,
Gaily pavilioned, on a purple cloud.
Sworn worshippers of beauty, where are ye?
Why Egypt's queen came not so daintily,
When, on the Cydnus, her resplendent barge
Left golden traces. But your eyes, perchance,
Are dim with splendours of some midnight hall,
And curtained close, forego this glorious sight.
Hark, life doth stir itself! The dray-horse strikes
His clattering hoof, and eyes with quivering limb
The tyrant-lash. And there are wakeful eyes
That watched for dawn, where sickness holds its sway,
Marking with groans the dial-face of time.
Half-famished penury from its vigil creeps,
The money-getter to his labour goes,
Gaunt avarice prowls—but where is wealth and power,
The much-indebted, and the high-endowed?
Count they heaven's gifts so carelessly, that morn
With kindred blush no gratitude doth claim?
Lo! from their plenitude, disease hath sprung,
The dire disease that ossifies the heart,
And luxury enchains them, when the soul
With her fresh, waking pulse, should worship God.