Philip James Bailey (Филип Джеймс Бэйли)

Morning

I.

She comes! how lovely are her smiles,
The ever glorious Morn!
Up from old Ocean and his isles,
Her rosy chariot borne
By the winged steeds of Light,
Spurning far the shades of night;
While Darkness gathers round her head
Her heavy wings which late lay spread
Wide o'er the sleeping world;
She quits her throne; she flies away--
She flings up her usurped way--
To shame and exile hurled.
Thus, Falsehood, fly, in that blest hour,
When Truth takes up for aye her long lost right and power!


II.

The goddess beautiful and bright!
She waves her hand on high,
And straight the Sun pours forth his might
And splendour o'er the sky.
The wakeful lark now leaves her nest,
And bears to Heaven the guileless breast;
The eagle rushes strong from rest,
To meet and prove his burning gaze
Upon the Sun's congenial blaze,
And steal his golden hue;
Above the sphere of earth to soar,
Till e'en the native cliff no more
Points to his piercing view;
Hail, mighty winged creature, there
May none thy high dominion share;
King of the trackless, sightless, boundless air!


III.

And hail, Aurora! still by thee
Our mother Earth's caressed;
And in return we worship thee,
Yea all pronounce thee blest.
Lo! they come from greenwood bowers,
Bands of maids with fresh--culled flowers;
To thee no death doomed lamb they bring,
Nor burned, nor blood stained offering,
To deck thy turfy shrine;
But swiftly, gaily, borne aloft
By healthful breeze, thy favours oft
They tell, thy name divine.
Oh! grant their prayers, inspire their praise,
While unto thee their pure and thankful chant they raise.


IV.

Fair Morn! though light and fleet thy stay,
Though brief, thy brilliant smile,
Yet balances the frowns of day,
The world's great woes, and wile;
Worship of self and gust for gain,
And all the rudeness of that reign
Which worldly usage doth maintain.
I dearly love to look on thee,
For thou an earnest art to me
Though short thine earthly stay,
Of time to come when woe shall die,
And vice and falsehood both shall fly,
Oh happy, holy day!
Then shall the just soul heavenward borne,
Leaving the dust garb it had worn,
With holy passion hail Immortal Morn! 

1. Festus - 37
2. Festus - 11
3. Festus - Dedication
4. Festus - Proem
5. Festus - 3

Mary Robinson (Мэри Робинсон) Morning ("O’ER fallow plains and fertile meads")

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1949

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