Poems (Hornblower)/Good Morn!
GOOD MORN!
Good morn! good morn! see the sweet light breaking
O'er lull and dale, to greet thy waking;
The dark grey clouds are flitting away,
And the young sun sheds forth a twilight ray;
And a halo of bloom is in the skies,
Yet the night of slumber is on thine eyes.
The opening dew lies fresh on the flower,
And sweetly cool is the youthful hour;
And the birds are twittering their tender song,
The bright and weeping boughs among;
And all seems fresh, and with rapture rife,
While wakening into conscious life.
O rouse thee! rouse thee! the precious time
Is fleeting fast, and merrily chime
The morning bells; and the beautiful view
Thy touch should arrest, is fading too.
The glow of the cloud is darkening fast,
And the sunny mist is almost past;
And thy lyre is lying all unstrung,
And thy matin hymn is still unsung:
And thy lip is mute, and thy knee unbending,
And where is the sweet prayer to heaven ascending."
What, slumbering still? arise! arise!
For thy lovely dreams are phantasies,
And mock thy waking—but come with me,
And listen to life's reality.
Oh! come and muse on that deeper sleep
O'er which hope will her silent vigils keep,
Ami soothe and shield, with her guardian wing,
The spirit's secret fluttering;
And lead it on to that brighter day,
Which knows no evening, and no decay!
O'er lull and dale, to greet thy waking;
The dark grey clouds are flitting away,
And the young sun sheds forth a twilight ray;
And a halo of bloom is in the skies,
Yet the night of slumber is on thine eyes.
The opening dew lies fresh on the flower,
And sweetly cool is the youthful hour;
And the birds are twittering their tender song,
The bright and weeping boughs among;
And all seems fresh, and with rapture rife,
While wakening into conscious life.
O rouse thee! rouse thee! the precious time
Is fleeting fast, and merrily chime
The morning bells; and the beautiful view
Thy touch should arrest, is fading too.
The glow of the cloud is darkening fast,
And the sunny mist is almost past;
And thy lyre is lying all unstrung,
And thy matin hymn is still unsung:
And thy lip is mute, and thy knee unbending,
And where is the sweet prayer to heaven ascending."
What, slumbering still? arise! arise!
For thy lovely dreams are phantasies,
And mock thy waking—but come with me,
And listen to life's reality.
Oh! come and muse on that deeper sleep
O'er which hope will her silent vigils keep,
Ami soothe and shield, with her guardian wing,
The spirit's secret fluttering;
And lead it on to that brighter day,
Which knows no evening, and no decay!