ODE TO MORNING.

BY —.

THE sprightly messenger of day
 To Heaven ascending tunes the lay
 That wakes the blushing morn:
 Chear'd with th' inspiring notes, I rise
 And hail the power, whose glad supplies
 Th' enliven'd plains adorn. 

Far hence retire, O Night! thy praise,
 Majestic Queen! in nobler lays
 Already has been sung:
 When thine own spheres expire, thy name,
 Secure from time, shall rise in fame,
 Immortaliz'd by Young. 

See, while I speak Aurora sheds
 Her early honours o'er the meads,
 The springing valley's smile;
 With chearful heart the village-swain
 Renews the labours of the plain,
 And meets the accustom'd toil. 

Day's monarch comes to bless the year,
 Wing'd Zephyrs wanton round his car,
 Along th' aethereal road;
 Plenty and Health attend his beams,
 And Truth, divinely bright, proclaims
 The visit of the God. 

Aw'd by the view, my soul reveres
 The Great FIRST CAUSE that bade the spheres
 In tuneful order move;
 Thine is the sable-mantled Night,
 Unseen Almighty! and the Light
 The radiance of thy love. 

Hark! the awaken'd grove repays
 With melody the genial rays,
 And Echo spreads the strain;
 The streams in grateful murmurs run,
 The bleating flocks salute the sun,
 And music glads the plain. 

While Nature thus her charms displays,
 Let me enjoy the fragrant breeze
 The opening flowers diffuse;
 Temp'rance and Innocence attend,
 These are your haunts, your influence lend,
 Associates of the Muse! 

Riot, and Guilt, and wasting Care,
 And fell Revenge, and black Despair
 Avoid the Morning's light;
 Nor beams the sun, nor blooms the rose,
 Their restless passions to compose,
 Who Virtue's dictates slight. 

Along the mead, and in the wood,
 And on the margin of the flood
 The Goddess walks confest:
 She gives the landscape power to charm,
 The sun his genial heat to warm
 The wife and generous breast. 

Happy the man! whose tranquil mind
 Sees Nature in her changes kind,
 And pleas'd the whole surveys;
 For him the morn benignly smiles,
 And evening shades reward the toils
 That measure out his days. 

The varying year may shift the scene,
 The sounding tempest lash the main,
 And Heaven's own thunders roll;
 Calmly he views the bursting storm,
 Tempests nor thunder can deform
 The morning of his soul.