Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/181

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breaketh on the mountains. Their grey peaks Catch its first tint, and through the moss that veils Their rugged foreheads, smile, as when the stars Together sang, at young creation's birth. Fresh gales awake, and the tall pines bow down To their soft visit; and the umbrageous oaks Spread their broad banners, while each leaf doth lift Itself, as for a blessing. Through the boughs Of the cool poplars, steals a sighing sound, The leaping rills make music, and the groves Pour from their cloistered nests a warbling hymn. From all her deep recesses, Nature's voice, Like the clear horn amid the Alpine hills, Is praise to God, at this blest hour of morn. Morn cometh to the cottage. Through its door Peep ruddy faces. Infant mirth awakes. The fair young milk-maid o'er the threshold trips, The shepherd's dog goes forth, the lamb sports gay, And the swain dips his glittering scythe in dews, Which like bright tears the new-shorn grass doth shed: Joy breathes around, while Health, with glowing lip And cheek embrowned, and Industry, with song Of jocund chorus, hail the King of Day. Morn looketh on the city. See how slow