Sunrise.
by Thomas Frederick Young

How few there are who know the pure delight,
The chaste influence, and the solace sweet,
Of walking forth to see the glorious sight,
When nature rises, with respect, to greet
The lord of day on his majestic seat,
Like some great personage of high degree,
Who cometh forth his subjects all to meet,
Like him, but yet more glorious far than he,
He comes with splendor bright, to shed o'er land and sea.
With stately, slow and solemn march he comes,
And gradually pours forth his brilliant rays,
Unheralded by sounding brass or drums,
His blazing glory on our planet plays,
And sendeth healing light thro' darken'd ways.
His undimm'd splendor maketh mortals quail,
And e'en, at times, it fiercely strikes and slays;
But then it brighteneth the cheek so pale,
Revives the plant, and loosens every nail
That fastens sorrow to the heart, within this vale.
But 'tis the morning glory of the sun,
I would request you now to view with me,
'Twill cheer that smitten heart, thou grieved one,
And lighter make your load of misery,
When you can hear and see all nature's glee.
Come friend arise, determin'd, drowse no more,
But stroll away to yonder hill with me;
And all the landscape round we shall explore,
All nature slumbers now; its sleep will soon be o'er.
The stillness now is strange, oppressive, grand,
The hush of death is now o'er all the earth,
As if it slept by power of genius's hand,
But soon the spell shall break, and songs and mirth,
And light, shall all proclaim the morning's birth.
E'en now behold the sun's advancing gleams,
The heralds of his coming, but the dearth
Of words forbid my telling how the streams,
And dewy grass are glinting, sparkling in the beams.
Or of the change, so steady and so sure,
That creeps upon creation all around,
Unwaken'd yet from slumbers bright and pure,
By atmospheric change, or earthly sound,
Such as at times awakes with sudden bound.
There comes a change o'er earth, and trees, and sky,
And all creation's work wherever found,
Save man, for he, with unawaken'd eye,
In dozing, slothful ease, will yet for hours lie.
The grandest artificial sights will pall
Upon the taste, and oft repeated, tire,
But each succeeding morn, the monarch Sol
Bedecks the world with fresh and vig'rous fire,
That cheers the fainting heart and sootheth ire.
Each morn, the gazer seeth something new,
And even what he saw will never tire,
For in an aspect clear and fresh, the view
Will gladden still your eyes, tho' oft it's gladden'd you.
By slow degrees the heralds make their way,
Until, at last, old Sol himself appears,
To reign supreme thro' all the blessed day,
As he hath reign'd for many thousand years
O'er joy and woe, bright smiles and bitter tears.
The very air is now astir with life,
And all around, unto our eyes and ears
Come evidences of a kindly strife,
For fields, and air, and trees with bustling now are rife.
All animated nature seems to vie
Each with the other, in their energy
Of preparation for the day's supply
Of work or play, or whate'er else may be
Prompted for them to do instinctively.
The grass is fill'd with buzzing insect throngs,
There's music in the air, and every tree
Is vocal with the wild-bird's gladsome songs,
Songs unrestrain'd by care or memory of wrongs.
A million tiny drops of crystal dew,
In shining splendor make the meadows fair;
The leaves upon the trees are greener, too,
As, swaying in the gentle morning air,
They are again prepar'd to stand the glare
Of Sol's meridian heat, and give their shade
To myriads of feather'd songsters there.
Our trip to see the sun arise is made,
Let us retrace our steps, and bravely share
Our portion of life's grief, anxiety and care.