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HAIL! smiling morn, that tips the hills with gold,
Who the gay face of nature dost unfold;
BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?
The wild brook babbling down the mountain's side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;
Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tells the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower.
THERE is a soft and fragrant hour,
Steals from the veil of parting night,
'Tis when some ling'ring stars scarce shed
Then one by one, retiring, shroud,
'Tis when (just waked from transient death
'Tis when fond nature (genial power!)
Those doubtful mists, that leave to view
Nor day, nor night, this hour can claim,
But fresh, reviving, dewy, sweet,
How sweet the fall of eve,
When in the glowing west
The sun hath sunk to rest,
Yet shining footprints on the air doth leave;
How beautiful, when light
Hath fled; and leaf and stream
Rest in a quiet dream,
Within the curtaining shadows of the night;
How silent is the air!
Who would not at such shrine
To holier thoughts incline?
The ever-tranquil night was made for prayer.
And when the hours of night
And the victorious day
Athwart the kindling air speeds arrowy light,
Awake to radiant life the heavens and earth!
How like a tender mother,
With loving thoughts beguil'd,
Hark! to the gentle lullaby,
That through the trees is creeping,
Her little ones are sleeping.
One little flutt'ring bird,
Like a child in a dream of pain,
Has chirp'd and started
Then nestled down again,
Oh! a child and a bird, as they sink to rest,
Are as like as any twain.
AVE MARIA! blessed be the hour,
The time, the clime, the spot, when I so oft
Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
CALM is the fragrant air, and loth to lose
Day's grateful warmth, though moist with falling dews. Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none;
Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,
Now eve descends in meek array,
Or round the sunset's crimson close
Faint, more faint, and fainter still,
The chimes from distant turret gray
The hamlet swarms with rustic poor,
Its two old dames their meal prepare;
Now then the pensive task be mine,