A POEM. 99 



And always found the morning hours have giv'n 

 Their quantum to the bag, when I have striv'n 

 My utmost thro' the day; there's something more 

 However, that I look to, than the score. 

 Is 't not a glorious sight, an Autumn's dawn ] 

 Bright Sol now rising, Nature's face t' adorn, 

 Or seeming so to rise, replete with power, 

 On us his energies immense to pour ; 

 His infant beams along th' horizon play, 

 And calmly usher in another day ; 

 The little warbler leaves his perch to raise, 

 In cheerful song, to God his matin praise; 

 And, hark ! the barn's door champion has warn'd 

 The drowsy peasant that the day has dawn'd. 

 How lovely seems the dew-bespangled grass, 

 The dew-drops waving might for di'monds pass ; 

 But unlike them, we feel we must confess, 

 Their splendour's nothing to their usefulness : 

 The gentle zephyrs round our persons breathe, 

 And in their turn oir grateful praise receive : 



