LXXXIV
The River Bathe
WHEN the messenger sunbeam over your bed
Silently creeps in the morn;
And the dew-drops glitter on flower and tree,
Like the tears of hope new-born;
When the clouds race by in the painted sky
And the wind has a merry tune:
Ah! then for the joy of an early dip
In the glorious pools of Lune!
Up! up from your bed! Let the sluggards lie
In an airy palace of dreams,
Respond to the joyous lapwing's call
And the song of the burbling streams!
Oh, balmy the air, and wondrous fair
Are the hills with sunlight crowned,
And all the voices of nature seem
To mingle in one glad sound.
Then hurry along, for as light as the heart
Are the feet on a morning in June,
To the banks that are speckled with sunshine and shade,
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