The Birth of Morning.

Pure, calm, diffused, the twilight of the morn1
Is in the glen, among the dewy leaves.2
Its gentle radiance, more heavenly-born3
Than the half-loving sunbeam, never grieves4
A nook, unvisited. This Earth receives5
The light which makes no shade, as the caress6
Of God on his credtion, and upheaves7
Her soft face, innocent with peace, to bless,8
Babe-like, his watchful eye with waking tenderness.9
A gate admits us to the Hill we seek ;10
Through woods a track upon the turf we find ;11
The trees are dripping dew, their tall stems creak12
And rub together when the morning wind13
Lightly caresses them. We pause to mind14
The note of one awakened bird, whose cry,15
Quaint and repeated, is not like its kind,16
Our ears are ignorant. Now up the high17
And mossy slope we climb, beneath an open sky.18
We reach the summit. Earth is in a dream19
Of misty seas, and islands strangely born20
The unreal, from reality. The stream21
Of wraith-like sights which, ere he can be torn22
From peaceful sleep, delights the travel-worn23
At slumber’s painted gate, is not more wild24
Than the imagining of Earth when Morn25
Bids her awaken. So a dreaming child26
Looks through white angel wings, and sees all
The blessed dream-land fancy of the young,28
More truthful than the reasoning of age,29
Is like this vision of the morning, sprung30
Of earth and air. These lines upon the page31
Of Nature have life in them. They assuage32
The fevers of the world, they are the dew33
Of calm,—and God is calm. How mortals wage34
Their wars of weakness Light reveals to view ;35
Reason fights through the false, but Fancy feels
the true.