Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Morn and Even
MORN AND EVEN.
"Thou makest the outgoings of the morning and of the evening to rejoice."—David.
The outgoings of sweet morn! See the light mist,
That spreads its white wing to the heavens away;
See the fresh blossoms by the blithe bee kiss'd;
The hilltop kindling 'neath the King of Day
Spire after spire, that drinks the genial ray;
The rocks, that in their rifted holds abide,
And darkly frown, with heads forever gray;
While the clear stream gleams out in trembling pride
Through its transparent veil, like a fair, timid bride.
Morn to the Earth! the cup of life she quaffs,
And countless voices hail the sparkling draught,
Methinks the lamb beside its mother laughs;
Up soars the lark, with song his Maker taught;
Sweet lisping murmurs wrap the infant's thought,
As gladly from the cottage door it creeps;
The wild rill glitters through the lonely grot;
While the hoarse sea, whose anthem never sleeps,
Reverberates God's praise through all its sounding deeps.
Morn to the watcher by the sick man's bed!
The slow, slow clock tells out the welcome hour,
And to the air he springs with buoyant tread;
The poor caged bird sings sweet in lady's bower;
The farmer, watchful lest the skies may lower,
Thrusts his sharp sickle mid the bearded grain;
While sportive voices, strong in childhood's power,
With merry music wake the village plain,
And toil comes forth refresh'd, and age is young again.
The outgoings of mild eve! the folded rose;
Soft slumber settling on the lily's bell;
The solemn forest lull'd to deep repose,
While restless winds no more its murmurs swell;
The stars emerging from their secret cell,
A silent night-watch o'er the world to keep;
And then the queenly moon, attended well,
Who o'er the mighty arch of heaven doth sweep,
Speaking of Nature's King in language still and deep.
The charms of eve how sweet, he best can say,
Who, sickening at the city's dust and noise,
And selfish arts that Mammon's votaries sway,
Turns to his home to taste its simple joys;
There, climbing on his knee, his ruddy boys
Wake that warm thrill which every care repays,
And fondly hasting from her baby-toys,
His prattling daughter seeks a father's gaze,
And gives that tender smile which o'er his slumber plays.
She, too, who wins her bread by toil severe,
And from her home at early morn must go
To earn the bread that dries her children's tear,
How hails her heart, the sun declining low!
Love nerves the foot that else were sad and slow,
And when afar her lowly roof she spies,
Forgot is all her lot of scorn and wo;
A mother's rapture kindles in her eyes,
As to her wearied arms the eager nursling flies.
And see, from labour loosed, the drooping team,
Unharness'd, hasting to their fragrant food,
While, fearful of the hawk's marauding scream,
The broad-wing'd mother folds her helpless brood;
In the cool chambers of the teeming flood
The scaly monsters check their boisterous play,
And, closely curtain'd mid the quiet wood,
The slumbering songsters hush their warbling lay,
While man's sweet hymn of praise doth close the summer day.