MORNING. BY J. CUNNINGHAM. IN the barn the tenant cock, Close to Partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock) And proclaims the morning nigh. Swiftly from the mountain's brow, Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire; And the peeping sun-beam now Paints with gold the village-spire. Now the pine-tree's waving top Gently greets the morning gale; And the new-wak'd kidlings crop Daisies round the dewy vale. Philomel forsakes the thorn, Plaintive where she prates at night; And the lark, to greet the morn, Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. From the clay-built cottage-ridge, See the chattering swallow spring! Darting thro' the one-arch'd bridge, Quick she dips her dappled wing. Lo the busy bees employ'd! Restless till their task be done! Now from sweet to sweet, uncloy'd, Sipping dew before the sun. Trickling thro' the crevic'd rock, See the silver stream distill! Sweet refreshment for the flock, When 'tis sun-drove from the hill! Ploughmen, for the promis'd corn Ripening o'er the banks of Tweed, Anxious hear the huntsman's horn, Soften'd by the shepherd's reed. Sweet, oh sweet, the warbling throng, On the white emblossom'd spray; All is music, mirth, and song, At the jocund dawn of day. NOON. BY THE SAME. FERVID now the sun-beam glows, Drinking deep the morning gem; Not a dew-drop's left the rose, To refresh her parent stem. By the brook the shepherd dines, From the fierce meridian heat Shelter'd by the branching pines, Pendent o'er his grassy seat. See, the flocks forsake the glade, Where uncheck'd the sun-beams fall, Sure to find a pleasing shade By the ivy'd abbey wall. Echo, in her airy round O'er the river, rock, and hill, Cannot catch a single sound, Save the clack of yonder mill. Cattle court the breezes bland, Where the streamlet wanders cool; Or with languid silence stand Midway in the marshy pool. But from mountain, dell, or stream, Not a fluttering Zephyr springs; Fearful lest the piercing beam Scorch its soft, its silken wings. Not a leaf has leave to stir; Nature's lull'd, serene and still; Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur, Sleeping on the heath-clad hill. Languid is the landscape round, Till the fresh descending shower Kindly cools the thirsty ground, And revives each fainting flower. Now the hill, the hedge, is green, Now the warbler's throat's in tune; Blithsome is the vernal scene, Brighten'd by the beams of noon. EVENING. BY THE SAME. AS the plodding ploughman goes Homeward, (to the hamlet bound) Giant-like his shadow grows, Lengthen'd o'er the level ground. O'er the mead the bullock strays Free — the furrow'd task is done; And the village windows blaze, Burnish'd by the setting Sun. Mark him, from behind the hill, Strike the purple-painted sky; Can the pencil's mimic skill Copy the refulgent dye? Where the rising forest spreads Round the time-decaying dome, To their high-built airy beds See the rooks returning home! As the lark, with varied tune, Carrols to the evening, loud, Mark the mild resplendent moon Breaking thro' a parted cloud! Now the hermit howlet peeps From the barn, or twisted brake, And the curling vapour creeps O'er the lily-border'd lake: As the trout, in speckled pride, Playful, from its bosom springs, To the banks a ruffled tide Verges in successive rings. Tripping thro' the silken grass, O'er the path-divided dale, See, the rose-complexion'd lass With the well-pois'd milking-pail! Linnets with unnumber'd notes, And the cuckoo bird with two, Tuning sweet their mellow throats, Bid the setting sun adieu.