Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Morning

Morning.

There is a parting in night's murky veil,A soft pale light is in the eastern sky;It steals along the ocean tremblingly,Like distant music wafted on the gale.Stars, one by one, grow faint, and disappear,Like waning tapers, when the feast is o'er;While, girt with rolling mists, the mountains hoar,High o'er the darkling glens their tops appear.There is a gentle rustling in the grove,Though winds be hushed: it is the stir of wings,And now the skylark from the nest upsprings,Trilling, in accents clear, her song of love;And now heaven's gate in golden splendour burns—Joy to the earth, the glorious sun returns.