There's Joy, &C.

There's joy when the rosy morning floods         The purple east with light,     When the zephyr sweeps from a thousand buds         The pearly tears of night.     There's joy when the lark exulting springs         To pour his matin lay,     From the blossomed thorn when the blackbird sings,         And the merry month is May.     There's joy abroad when the wintry snow         Melts as it ne'er had been,     When cowslips bud and violets blow,         And leaves are fresh and green.     There's joy in the swallow's airy flight,         In the cuckoo's blithesome cry,     When the floating clouds reflect the light         Of evening's glowing sky.     There's joy in April's balmy showers         'Mid gleam of sunshine shed,     When May calls forth a thousand flowers         To deck the earth's green bed.     There's joy when the harvest moon comes out         With all her starry train,     When the woods return the reaper's shout         And echo shouts again.     There's joy in childhood's merry voice         When the laugh rings blithe and clear;     And the sounds that bid young hearts rejoice         Are music to the ear.     There's joy in the dreams of early youth,         Ere care has cast a shade     O'er scenes which, though drest in the guise of truth,         Our reason dooms to fade.     There's joy in the youthful lover's breast         When his bride by the altar stands,     When his trembling lip to hers is pressed         And the priest has joined their hands.     There's joy in the smiling mother's heart         When she clasps her first-born son,     When the holy tears of rapture start         To bless the lovely one.     There's joy when the war-worn soldier hears         The notes that breathe of peace,     That dry the anxious matron's tears,         And bid stern slaughter cease.     There's joy when he treads the village green         And views his father's cot;     The horrors of the battle-scene         Are in that hour forgot.     There's joy in the shipwrecked seaman's heart,         Who has clung all night to the shrouds;     When the morning breeze rives the rack apart,         And the sun breaks through the clouds.     There's joy when he nears his native land,         And the tedious voyage is o'er,     And he feels the grasp of the kindred hand         He thought to enfold no more.     There's joy above, around, beneath,         But tis a fleeting ray;     The world's stern strife, the hand of death,         Bid mortal hopes decay.     But there's a better joy than earth,         With all her charms, can give,     Which marks the Christian's second birth,         When man but dies to live!