SWEET warbler of the summer morn,
Ris'n from mellow fields of corn,
Thy matin song of praise begun,
You travel forth to meet the sun.
With brilliant note, extended wing,
And freedom's voice, you gaily sing;
Cheering the lab'rer on his way,
To all the cares of busy day.
With whistling pipe, or rustic lay,
He guiles the sultry hours away;
'Mid all his toil thy blithesome voice,
Imparts a feeling to rejoice.
Say, for thou penetrat❜st the sky,
What robe of glorious majesty
Does God's creation wear above,
Where world's in silent grandeur move?
Bright Phoebus rises from his rest,
In crimson colors richly drest,
Dispels the gloomy shades of night,
Diffusing beams of heavenly light.
Dost hear the heavenly hierarchy,
All hailing the approach of day?
Dost hear the bright angelic throng,
Chanting the rapt'rous choral song?
Ah! no, far, far beyond thy flight,
Sit they on thrones serenely bright;
Thy little wing would soon be lost,
Didst thou attempt to reach that coast.
And yet a lay you humbly raise,
To celebrate your Maker's praise;
And early on the morning's wing,
Extoll'st creation's noble King.
Oh! that the sons of slothful man,
Would all adopt thy goodly plan;
The scales of sleep cast from their eyes,
And quick from drowsy couches rise.
In ev'ry page of nature's book,
A moral's found to those who look;
If man would hear, each plant's a preacher,
If man would learn, each beast's a teacher.
Adieu, sweet harbinger of day,
Time's progress beckons me away;
I fain would in thy custom see,
A lesson of industry to me.
Ever may I, like thee, arise,
When Phoebus' beams first tint the skies;
Be active, cheerful, and in praise
Begin and finish all my days.
O, BANEFUL curse to proud high-minded man,
Thou brilliant ore! whose pestilential pow'r
Corrodes and hardens those who might be blest
With virtue and morality! Thou dire
Earth-gotten god, who fixest in the heart
A throne, on which to blast the ardent hopes.
Of souls immortal, and re-wreck the saint
Who once has had salvation from the cross!
How could I warn the young, exhort the old,
To shun thy courts, and leave their all to Him,
Whose piercing eye ne'er suffers e'en a bird,
Poor paltry sparrow, to expire unseen.
Yet, oh! thou pow'r, thou vile one unperceiv'd, Thou plotting devil, damn'd Beelzebub,
'Tis thou who ruin'st the heart, and sow'st the
Where fragrant wheat and early crops should rise,
To yield morn incense to the Lord of might.
Prosperity unlimited! Thou bar
To man e'er reaching heav'n; away, away,
And let my constant portion ever be
Trials and afflictions; which are sent by Thou
power unseen, to wake the slumb’ring heart To sense of danger, folly and excess,
Which if not thwarted, must quick ruin bring.
To what a melancholy depth I've fall'n;
Remain one beam of grace, for one who has
That grace so long despised. Save me, thou Son
Of God, if yet thy blood avail for me,
Who, treading underfoot that blood, has oft
In heedless ribaldry pass'd by thy cross,
And passing wagg'd his head. Aid give thou me,
Spirit divine, that oft within us striv'th
Against the power and pang of inbred sin,
That oft hast strov'n in me; but ah! how oft
Griev'd to forsake the creature, that thou wouldst
In spite of grief sustain, Jehovah, save!
Thus spake he. Nor the cloudness of the night,
Nor chilling dews that fell, nor death's cold note,
That through the valleys swell'd, could wake
his soul
From conscience and from crime. Such, such
The late, the last, the vain and pining cry,
Of one, whom Satan with false hopes had won From glory and from God, to hell and him.
Walton & Mitchell, Printers, 24, Wardour-st. Oxford st.
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