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SUMMER MORNING.
LONDON: PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY Bangor House, Shoe Lane.
SUMMER MORNING.
A POEM.
BY THOMAS MILLER.
LONDON: JAMES HAYWARD AND CO. 53, PATERNOSTER ROW.
SUMMER MORNING.
Morning again breaks through the mines of Heaven, And shakes her jewelled kirtle on the sky, Heavy with rosy gold. Aside are driven The vassal clouds, which bow as she draws nigh, And catch her scattered gems of orient dye, The pearl?d-ruby which her pathway strews; Argent and amber, now thrown useless by. The uncoloured clouds wear what she doth refuse, For only once does Morn her sun-dyed garments use.
No print of sheep-track yet hath crushed a flower; The spider's woof with silvery dew is hung As it was beaded ere the daylight hour: The hook?d bramble just as it was strung, When on each leaf the Night her crystals flung, Then hurried off, the dawning to elude; Before the golden-beak?d blackbird sung, Or ere the yellow-brooms, or gorses rude, Had bared their arm?d heads in lowly gratitude.
From Nature's old cathedral sweetly ring The wild-bird choirs--burst of the woodland band, Green-hooded nuns, who 'mid the blossoms sing; Their leafy temple, gloomy, tall, and grand, Pillared with oaks, and roofed with Heaven's own hand. Hark! how the anthem rolls through arches dun:-- "Morning again is come to light the land; The great world's Comforter, the mighty Sun, Has yoked his golden steeds, the glorious race to run."
Those dusky foragers, the noisy rooks, Have from their green high city-gates rushed out, To rummage furrowy fields and flowery nooks; On yonder branch now stands their glossy scout. As yet no busy insects buzz about, No fairy thunder o'er the air is rolled: The drooping buds their crimson lips still pout; Those stars of earth, the daisies white, unfold, And soon the buttercups will give back "gold for gold."
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