Morning. Mary Tighe (née Blachford) Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Tighe, Mary, 1772-1810. Psyche, With Other Poems. London Printed for LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, PATERNOSTER-ROW 1811 pp. 241-243. 314p.

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Morning .

— — — totics nostros Titania questus Praterit , et gelido spargit miserata flagello . STATIUS .

O MORN ! I hail thy soft , enchanting breezes , Thy soul-felt presence , and reviving light ; Thy glad approach my anxious bosom cases , And care and sorrow for a while take flight . Like youth's gay hours , or Spring's delicious season , To me once more thy balmy breath appears ; Lost hope returns , assumes the face of reason , And half persuades to flight oppressive fears . While darkened casements vainly light excluded , I wooed propitious sleep with languid sighs , Care through the gloom his anxious face obtruded , And banished slumber from my weary eyes . The tedious hours I told With Watchful anguish , And oft , O Morn ! accused thy long delay : I hail thee now , no longer vainly languish , But quit my couch , and bless refreshing day . Through the long night impatient , sad , and weary , How melancholy life itself appeared ! Lo ! cheerful day illumes my prospects dreary , And how diminished are the ills I feared ! Though , pleasure shine not in the expected morrow , Though nought were promised but return of care , The light of Heaven could banish half my sorrow , And comfort whispers in the fresh , cool air . I hear the grateful voice of joy and pleasure , All nature seems my sadness to reprove , High trills the lark his wild ecstatic measure , The groves resound with liberty and love : Ere his glad voice proclaimed thy dawning early , How oft deceived I rose thy light to hail ; Through the damp grass hoarse accents sounded cheerly , As wooed his distant love the wakeful rail . Oh , you ! who murmur at the call of duty , And quit your pillow with reluctant sloth , For whom the Morn in vain displays her beauty , While tasteless you can greet her smiles so loth ; You cannot know the charm which o'er me stealing , Revives my senses as I taste her breath , Which half repays the agony of feeling A night of horrors , only less than death .