Sunday Morning At Cambridge - Poem by John Pierpont
It had rained in the night; but the morning's birth
Was as calm and still as even;
The heralds of day were awake in their mirth,
For the sun in his glory was coming to earth,
And the mists had gone to heaven.
The winds were asleep; so soft was the weather,
Since the storm had spent its might,
Not an angel of morning had lifted a feather,
Or whispered a word for hours together,
Or breathed a 'Farewell!' to night.
The fields were green,
And the world was clean;
The young smokes curled in air,
And the clear-toned bell
Swung merrily to tell
The students' hour of prayer.
The elm's yellow leaf, that the frost had dyed,
Caught the yellower sun as he came in pride
Down the church's spire and the chapel's side.
As learning's pale and dark-robed throng
Moved on to morning's prayer and song,
One of the train, who walked alone,
One, to the rest but little known,
Whose way of worship was his own,
Moved tardily, till by degrees
He stopped among the glittering trees
While the rest in the chapel assembled.
For the diamond drops of the mist hung there,
All meltingly strung on the stiff, straight hair,
Of the shrubbery larch. The sun's flash came
And wrapped the bush all at once in flame;
Yet its glorious locks never trembled.
Not Horeb's bush, to Moses' eye,
Wa fuller of the deity.
The worshipper gazed:-'t was a glorious sight!
As the pageant blazed with its rainbow light,
He was bowing his heart adoringly.
From the bush, that in silence and purity burned,
To commune with the Spirit that filled it he learned,
And from earth I saw that his eyes were turned,
And lifted to heaven imploringly.
Oct. 2d, 1818
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