The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Summer Morning

Summer Morning
'T is beautiful, when first the dewy light Breaks on the earth! while yet the scented air Is breathing the cool freshness of the night, And the bright clouds a tint of crimson wear, Mix'd with their fleecy whiteness; when each fair And delicate lined flower that lifts its head Is bathed in dainty odours, and all rare And beautiful things of nature are outspread, With the rich flush of light that only morn can shed.

When every leafy chalice holds a draught Of nightly dew, for the hot sun to drink, When streams gush sportively, as though they laugh'd For very joyousness, and seem to shrink, In playful terror from the rocky brink Of some slight precipice—then with quick leap, Bound lightly o'er the barrier, and sink In their own whirling eddy, and then sweep With rippling music on, or in their channels sleep.

While lights and shades play on them, with each breath That moves the calm still waters; when the fly Skims o'er the surface, and all things beneath Gleam brightly through the flood, and fish glance by With a quick flash of beauty—when the sky Wears a deep azure brightness—and the song Of matin gladness lifts its voice on high, And mingled harmony and perfume throng On every whispering breeze that lightly floats along.—

'T is sweet to wander forth at such an hour, And drink the spirit of its loveliness; While on the brow no shadowing care-clouds lower, And on strong wing the free thoughts upward press;— Yet there are those whom nature cannot bless, With all her varied beauty;—such as they, Whose cup is drugg'd with pain and sore distress, By their own brother's hand, and the quench'd ray Of whose lost hopes spreads gloom across the brightest day.

Lo! where, like cattle driven by the lash, Forth to their wearying task in groups they go; The mother, lifting up her hand, to dash The tear-drops from her cheek, that still will flow, As on her ear her infant's wail comes low, Yet painfully distinct; and she must leave,— For the stern overseer wills it so— Her tender little one unsoothed, to grieve, Happy to clasp it safe when she returns at eve.

The feeble crone who on her knees hath borne Her children's grandchildren, is toiling there; Young forms, and weak old men, whose limbs are worn Nigh to the grave—strong men, whose bow'd necks bear Perchance the weight of heavy irons, that wear Into their very souls;—small heed has he Who tasks them, of their ills, and none will spare From the rude scourge—nor old nor infancy— Who have the allotted toil perform'd imperfectly.

Oh shame upon man's selfishness! that so The love of gold should canker in his breast, Transforming his affection's kindly glow To bitterness, himself into a pest Upon the earth, the scourge of the oppress'd, And tyrant of the helpless.—Strange that they, Who with man's high capacities are blest, Should, for earth's valueless and tinsel clay, Thus cast the priceless jewels of their souls away.