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!