Lydia Huntley Sigourney

The First Wintery Morning

Awake! and let the grateful lay
    With joy to Heaven's high palace rise,
Before the bright, rejoicing day
    Returns to light the glowing skies:

Before the throng shall leave their beds,
    Their various labours to pursue;
Before the smoke, aspiring spreads
    Its curling volumes light and blue.

The flowers that in their sweetness rose,
    The mountain's bosom to adorn,
Now hide their meek and drooping brows,
    Before the stern and wintry morn.

The plants that once with joy elate,
    Now shrink before the wintry gloom,
Remind my spirit of the state,
    To which must haste our youthful bloom.

But when these charms, so bright and frail,
    Shall shrink, and wither, and decay,
Say, is there nought to countervail
    The good that time shall take away?

There is a joy that lights the eye,
    When beauty, youth, and strength are past,
When all our earthly pleasures fly,
    Like leaves before the wintry blast.

There is a joy that checks the throng
    Of chilling cares, and sorrow's shock,
That strikes its anchor, deep and strong,
    In Heaven's imperishable rock.

Grant me this joy, and when my soul
    Her farewell to the world shall sigh;
When unknown seas beneath me roll,
    And lift their deathful billows high;

Then when my frail and fainting sight,
    To this receding world is dim,
The lustre of my Saviour's light
    Shall brightly mark my way to Him.