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
.