Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/94



MORNING. I at dawn upon the heights alone. A wakeful awe of silence reigns around; The pines are hushed, no bird breathes any sound. The mountains are a symphony, whose tone, Piled in the expanse of memory, hath grown Slow-reared; they seem to heave before mine eyes From deep, dark glens, to clear auroral skies, In billowy graduation, from the bowed Low notes of dusky lowlands to the loud Pæan of gratulation that is blown Heavenward from awful summits fraught with morn, One fiery snow! Upon the craggy surge, Rude rocky village eyries are upborne Over bleak umber plains; from verge to verge The higher hills that neighbour them have worn For ages the pine forest vast and grave; Nature arises from Death's cold engulfing wave