Classic Poem

The loving morn is springing
From night's unloving gloom;
And earth seems now arising
In beauty from the tomb,

See daylight far above us,
Tinging each cloudy wreath,
Ere it showers itself in splendor
Upon the plain beneath.

'Tis sparkling on the mountain-peak,
'Tis hurrying down the vale,
'Tis bursting thro' the forest-boughs,
'Tis freshening in the gale.

'Tis mingling with the river's smile,
'Tis glistening in the dew,
'Tis flinging far its silver net,
O'er ocean's braided blue.

'Tis blushing o'er the meadow's gold,
'Tis lighting on the flower,
Unfolding every gentle bud
To the gladness of the hour.

'Tis gilding the old ruin's moss,
'Tis gleaming from the spire;
And thro' the crumbling window-shafts
It shoots its living fire.

'Tis quivering in the village smoke
That curls the low roof o'er;
It beats against the castle gate,
And at the cottage door.

O'er the church-yard it is resting,—
On stone, and grass, and mould,
Giving voice to each grey tombstone,
As to Memnon's harp of old.

O the gay burst of beauty
That is flushing over earth,
And calling forth its millions
To holy morning mirth!

Yet look we for a sunrise
More beautiful than this;
And watch we for a dawning
Of purer light and bliss.

When a far fairer morning
O'er greener hills shall rise.
And a far fresher sunlight
Look down from bluer skies.

Is not creation weary?
Has sin not reigned too long?
Hear, Lord, thy Church's pleading,
Come, end her day of wrong!