A Morning Exercise

Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad,
Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw;
Sending sad shadows after things not sad,
Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe:
Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry
Becomes an echo of Man’s misery.

    Blithe Ravens croak of death; and when the Owl
Tries his two voices for a favourite strain—
Tu-whit—Tu-whoo! the unsuspecting fowl
Forebodes mishap, or seems but to complain;
Fancy, intent to harass and annoy,
Can thus pervert the evidence of joy.

    Through border wilds where naked Indians stray,
Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill;
A feathered Task-master cried, “Work away!”
And, in thy iteration, “Whip poor Will,”
Is heard the Spirit of a toil-worn Slave,
Lashed out of life, not quiet in the grave!

    What wonder? at her bidding, ancient lays
Steeped in dire griefs the voice of Philomel;
And that fleet Messenger of summer days,
The Swallow, twittered subject to like spell;
But ne’er could Fancy bend the buoyant Lark
To melancholy service—hark! O hark!

    The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn,
Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed;
But He is risen, a later star of dawn,
Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy cloud;
Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark;
The happiest Bird that sprang out of the Ark!

    Hail, blest above all kinds!—Supremely skilled
Restless with fixed to balance, high with low,
Thou leav’st the Halcyon free her hopes to build
On such forbearance as the deep may show;
Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly ties,
Leavest to the wandering Bird of Paradise.

    Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek Dove;
Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee;
So constant with thy downward eye of love,
Yet, in aerial singleness, so free;
So humble, yet so ready to rejoice
In power of wing and never-wearied voice!

    How would it please old Ocean to partake,
With Sailors longing for a breeze in vain,
The harmony that thou best lovest to make
Where earth resembles most his blank domain!
Urania’s self might welcome with pleased ear
These matins mounting towards her native sphere.

    Chanter by Heaven attracted, whom no bars
To day-light known deter from that pursuit,
’Tis well that some sage instinct, when the stars
Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still and mute;
For not an eyelid could to sleep incline
Were thou among them singing as they shine!