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Thy journey is across the waves,
Upon the roaring deep;
While we, thy kindred, sleep.
The fortune thou dost seek, Is looked for by the glad and gay,
The sombre and the meek.
Our prayers for thee ascend on high,
Thy safety and thy weal ; And may the memory never die
Of what this hour we feel.
May it be ne'er o'ercast,
Of dire affliction's blast.
Ode to Morning,
Written at a period of unusual depression.
Hail Morning, garbed in yellowness!
Back, Night, into thy bed,
Nor show again thy darksome head! But let the Sun with golden mellowness
Tinge all the azure plain ;
And flowers that droop with rain.
Hail Morning, pregnant with delight
To victor enemy,
To forest beasts that roam,
Burthened with spoil,
And crop the soil,—
Lo, Phoebus his diurnal course retakes !
Look, look, he rises from the sea,
What rapid strides he makes!
When he appears, And all the numerous train, Of stars attending Cynthia in her wane,
Display their fears, And vanish like a band of winged elves.
See as he
peeps from out his wavy couch, With lightsome spring
The larks take wing, And up towards heaven soar;
And as they fly
Along the sky,
While warbling forth their matin hymn The prowling fox doth to his burrow crouch ;
And drowsy herdsmen sleep no more.
Weleome Aurora !
Thou that bringest life and health,
As the new-born day,
Glad it receives ;
From every tree,
With heartfelt glee,
Its 'livening sonnet gives;
And charmeth with its song the listening crowd, While of its honey'd tones it waxeth proud;
And higher on the tree, Where its sweet notes are heard more loud, It percheth, and is listened to with pleasure, As it sounds forth, bright sun, thy praise
In its extatic lays ; While gladness is enveloped in each measure
Gladness to all but me.
I sit upon this lofty brow,
But nought attracts me now,-
Aly heart is chilled ;-
That I could once within her see,-
The Erile's Happy Hour.
The morn, the morn, the beautiful morn,
When the beam cometh o'er the sea ; And the sparkling gems on the blossoming thorn,
And the songster upon the tree.
The noon, the noon, the glorious hour,
When the burning sun's on high, And Nature smileth on plant and flower
In her fulness of majesty.
The eve, the genial eventide,
When the fanning zephyrs play ;
And the sun hath sped his way.
But morn, and noon, and stilly eve,
Are the same to the exiled slave; In secret silence his heart doth grieve
For his home the Isle of the brave,
But the night, the night, the clear calm night,
When the stars are in the sky,
O'er the heavens' blue canopy.
Then balmy sleep, with her magic wand,
Sets the fettered captive free; And he visits again his native land
In the dream,—sleep's mystery!