THE MORNING HOUR.

Like a maid on her bridal morn I rise,

With the smile on her lip and the tear in her eyes;

Whilst the breeze my crimson banner unfurls,

I wreathe my locks with the purest pearls;

Brighter diamonds never were seen

Encircling the neck of an Indian queen!

I traverse the east on my glittering wing,

And my smiles awake every living thing;

And the twilight hour like a pilgrim gray,

Follows the night on her weeping way.

I raise the veil from the saffron bed,

Where the young sun pillows his golden head;

He lifts from the ocean his burning eye,

And his glory lights up the earth and sky.

Ah, I am like that dewy prime,

Ere youth hath shaken hands with time;

Ere the fresh tide of life has wasted low,

And discovered the hidden rocks of woe:

When like the rosy beams of morn,

Joy and gladness and love were born,

Hope divine, of heavenly birth,

And pleasure that lightens the cares of earth!