Morning

From “The Minstrel” BUT who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountainside; The lowing herd; the sheepfold’s simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, the linnet’s lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark; Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away, on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower.