MORNING-GLORIES.
Oh, dainty daughters of the dawn, most delicate of flowers,
How fitly do ye come to deck day's most delicious hours!
Evoked by morning's earliest breath, your fragile cups unfold
Before the light has cleft the sky, or edged the world with gold.
Before luxurious butterflies and moths are yet astir,
Before the careless has snapped the leaf-hung gossamer,
While spearèd dewdrops, yet unquaffed by thirsty insect-thieves,
Broider with rows of diamonds the edges of the leaves.
Ye drink from day's o'erflowing brim, nor ever dream of noon,
With bashful nod ye greet the sun, whose flattery scorches soon,
Your trumpets trembling to the touch of humming-bird and bee,
In tender trepidation sweet, and fair timidity.
No flower in all the garden hath so wide a choice of hue, -
The deepest purple dies are yours, the tenderest tints of blue;
While some are colourless as light, some flushed incarnadine,
And some are clouded crimson, like a goblet stained with wine.
Ye hold not in your calm, cool hearts the passion of the rose,
Ye do not own the haughty pride the regal lily knows;
But ah, what blossom has the charm, the purity of this,
Which shrinks before the tenderest love, and dies beneath a kiss?
In this wide garden of the world, where he is wise who knows
The bramble from the sweet-brier, the nettle from the rose,
Some lives there are which seem like these, as sensitive and fair,
As far from thought of sin or shame, as free from stain of care.
We find sometimes these splendid souls, when all our world is young.
Where life is crisp with freshness, with unshaken dew-drops hung.
They blossom in the cool, dim hours, ere sunshine dries the air,
But cease and vanish long before the noonday's heat and glare.
And if in manhood's dusty time, fatigued with toil and glow,
We crave the fresh young morning-heart which charmed us long ago,
We seek in vain the olden ways, the shadows moist and fair:
The heart-shaped leaves may linger, but the blossom is not there.
The fairest are most fragile still, the world of being through,
The finest spirits, faint before they lose life's morning dew.
The trials and the toils of time touch not their tender truth,
For, ere earth's stain can cloud them, they achieve immortal youth.
ON HEARING THE CHIFF-CHAFF.
THE EARLIEST AND SMALLEST OF OUR
MIGRATORY BIRDS.
Where mighty forest trees uprear
Their leafless boughs on high,
We listen with attentive ear,
And watch with practised eye,
While music from the loosened throat
Of many a winter bird,
In liquid sweetness, note on note,
Through all the wood is heard.
But not the trill of merry thrush,
Or blackbird's cadence clear,
Or twittering finch, in tree or bush,
Can satisfy our ear.
Ah, what is that short simple song
Which trembles through the air?
That is the voice for which we long -
Our favourite hails us there.
Two syllables are all the store.
Of music in its breast,
But like a fountain running o'er,
Its twin notes never rest.
It tells us that the nightingale
Will soon be on its way,
And that the swallow without fail
Will keep its ordered day.
It heralds the bright-wingèd crowd
Which flock from over seas;
It harbingers the concert loud
Of vernal melodies.
Therefore we love those twin notes plain
For more than meets the ear,
As pledges of the glorious strain
Which crowns the perfect year.
So, in our hearts, a still small voice
Comes preluding the song,
With which the glorious saints rejoice
In heaven's exultant throng!
Leisure Hour.Richard Wilton
