MORNING.

‘ Tis the hour when white-horsed Day

Chases Night her mares away;

When the Gates of Dawn ( they say )

Phobus opes:

And I gather that the Queen

May be uniformly seen,

Should the weather be serene,

On the slopes.

When the ploughman, as he goes

Leathern-gaitered o'er the snows,

From his hat and from his nose

Knocks the ice;

And the panes are frosted o'er,

And the lawn is crisp and hoar,

As has been observed before

Once or twice.

When arrayed in breastplate red

Sings the robin, for his bread,

On the elmtree that hath shed

Every leaf;

While, within, the frost benumbs

The still sleepy schoolboy's thumbs,

And in consequence his sums

Come to grief.

But when breakfast-time hath come,

And he's crunching crust and crumb,

He'll no longer look a glum

Little dunce;

But be brisk as bees that settle

On a summer rose's petal:

Wherefore, Polly, put the kettle

On at once.