Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Stanzas ("Morn's earliest blush with frowning dyes…")

Stanzas.

Morn's earliest blush with frowning dyes Proclaims Night's empire done,And soon the full-orbed power will rise Of Day's creative sun.

At such an hour, 'tis sweet to mark Nature's unruffled state,And hear the matin-hailing lark Carol at Heaven's own gate:

And view the pearls displayed by Night, As sparkling on each spray,They catch the morn's reflected light, And glistening melt away;

And list to voices which prevail When noisy man's is still,As floating on the dewy gale, They breathe from stream or hill:

In such an hour the soul expands, And fearless dares exploreThe vision of those viewless lands Beyond Time's bounded shore.

The mind forgets its cares awhile, The heart its pangs foregoes,And, warmed by Nature's peaceful smile, Is lulled to sweet repose.

Our thoughts the lapse of time retrace, When Eden's bloom was young,And Man, inspiring heavenly grace, Heaven's songs of virtue sung.

Then all was like this prime of day, All peaceful, all serene;And Innocence with artless sway Gladdened each happy scene.

All voices joined in sweet accord, In hymns of grateful praise,To hail Creation's mighty Lord, In pure and hallowed lays.

The sun ascends—morn's freshness fades, The spell of peace recedes;Labour resumes his busy trade, And Man his bustling deeds.

So when the Sun of knowledge rose, Eden's rich treasure's past—The soul no more with pureness glows, Chilled by Sin's withering blast.

The garden is a wilderness, The wilderness a grave,Man's mind a chaos of distress That Heaven was rich to save.

For, lo! with healing wings the sun Breaks forth with richest dyes,The moral night's dark reign is done— Hear, earth! list, O ye skies!

He, who from chaos called the world, And hade creation be,From depth of moral gloom unfurled The mind, and made it free.

This renovation of the soul, This morn of happier time,Makes former wounds of sorrow whole, Atoning man's first crime.

And still his rays are shining bright, To all who seek their power,Inspiring warmth and guidance—light In life, or death's dark hour.

Oh, hail him then, with shouts of praise, With loud hosannas sing,High, high your swelling anthems raise To Heaven and Nature's king.

For, through the dim of future years, So Faith illumes the eye,Him, who the drooping spirit cheers, I see forsake the sky.

And, clad in glory all His own, Begirt with Mercy's sword,While seraphs wait around His throne, He speaks the vital word.

And the last morning flashes forth, The graves give back their dead,From west to east, from south to north, Hell's power is captive led.

That morn shall set again no more, But rise to perfect day,And grief and sin on Eden's shore, And tears, shall pass away.

No clouds the lovely scene shall gloom, No terrors man affright,Celestial blessings ever bloom, A day without a night!