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1864.]
Morning—Early Summer.
537
MORNING—EARLY SUMMER.
by E. A. Jenks
The laughing sunshine peers above the hill, And down the slumbering vale;Then hastens on with nimble feet, untilA rood or two beyond the silvery rill,Now strolling idly through the crippled mill, He gains the cottage pale.
The hospitable gate stands open wide; And, with impatient lips,The morning glory beckons to her sideThe wayward youth, whose quest she ne'er denied;Her tangled trasses quick he thrusts aside, And dewy nectar sips.
He lingers lovingly among the flowers That fringe the open door;Then steals within, and wakes, with magic powers,The forms at rest in Dreamland's rustic bowers,And plays through morning's golden-tinted hours Upon the oaken floor.
The birds troll welcome to the summer days From airy turrets high;The bees are humming over ancient laysThat erst were heard in Eden's shaded ways,On that bright morn when universal praise Rolled through the arching sky.
Brave chanticleers, with summons loud and shrill, The languid echoes wake,Which just before were sleeping, calm and still,Behind the old and hoary-headed mill—Which nevermore will heed its master's will— Beyond the dreaming lake.
The butterflies have stretched their painted wings Upon the breath of dawn,And flit from flower to flower like human things;The slaughtered hay its dying perfume flingsAbroad upon the white-winged gale, which brings And strows it o'er the lawn.