Morning. Poem by Samuel Bamford

See yon mildly beaming light
Bursting on the rear of night;
See it wider, wider spread,
Over Alpin's rocky head:
Alpin, who, as bards have told,
Strove with Ealderman the bold.
Bootless strife—for Rimmon, fair,
For the warrior could not care;
Nought availed beseeching eye,
Given to the winds his sigh;
Nor did force befriend the brave,
Rimmon perish'd in the wave.
Now, adown his rugged side,
Pours the flood of morning tide;
Night hath rolled back her cloud,
Mead and mountain to unshroud;
Reynard seeks his safe retreat,
The owl her solitary seat,
And the bat hath found her nest,
And the pole-cat is at rest;
And the poacher is a-bed,
Dreaming how he lucky sped,
Net, and grin, and store of game,
None their hiding place to name.
Venus now her fainting gleam
Yields to Sol's superior beam:
See him rise, a globe of light,
Robed in effulgence bright:
Mountain, tree, and village spire,
Wrapping in ethereal fire:
High, and higher, rising still,
Till he tops the highest hill:
Clouds he smileth far away,
Limpid dew and mist so grey:
Part he gives to feed the flowers,
Part to spangle on the bowers,
Part he calleth up again
To feed the cataracts of rain.
See the lowly primrose pale,
From its grassy covert steal;
Daisies, tinged with purple glow,
Lady smock, as white as snow;
Crocus yellow, white, or blue,
Daffodil of golden hue;
Polyanthus varied cup
Doth the dewy off'ring sup;
These, besides a hundred more,
Field and garden spangle o'er.
Hark! yon ever varying song
Bursting from the feathered throng;
Hark! the ousel's melody,
Pouring from his wonted tree;
Whilst the lark is tuning high
His grateful carol in the sky.
Now, the throstle's lordly throat,
Now, the linnet's twitt'ring note;
And the robin and the wren,
Favoured by the sons of men.
Echo joins the vocal throng,
And the chorus doth prolong
Over flowery dale and hill,
Over brook and pearly rill;
Over pasture, over dell,
Woodland dark, and mossy cell.
Now the smoking cot is seen,
With its ivy'd chimney green;
Children playing in the fold,
Whilst the busy wife doth scold;
And the damsel takes her pail
Off a milking to the vale;
And the lads are sped away,
For another ploughing day.
There, with songs of mirth and glee,
Tales of love and constancy,
And peals of laughter bursting free,
Wide o'er the deeply furrow'd lee;
Hail! the morning, blithe and gay,
Grateful for another day.