WRITTEN
After a Morning Walk in May, 1815.
Departed Night's last relic fades away,
Yon solitary star; and, in the east
Condensed, the crimson glow of deep'ning morn
Like a rich?ruby, clasps pale twilight's zone.
From his low couch of grassy green, inwove
With many a field-flower, springs the early Lark,
And, rising, warbles his ecstatic song.
Wildly irregular, and sweet, tho' shrill
As Shepherd's simple pipe, upon the gale
(The balmy-breathing gale, wafting at once
Fragrance and harmony) the gay notes come;
Till, as he lessens to the following gaze,
They gradual soften on the soothed ear,
And die in distance. Meanwhile brightly now
The Sun looks downward thro' the severing clouds,
That from the sight conceal'd him, as he rose,
Edging their floating folds with fluid hem
Of yellowest amber: the embodied beam
Falls on the slope side of the hill below,
Where every object, thro' it's softening veil,
