At the break of the morn, when the crest of the hill
    Is tipt with a golden glow,
And the rosy sun riseth fresh from his sleep
    His soft light on the earth to throw,
Then the notes of the lark are heard from the sky,
    From the woodlands the linnet’s sweet song,
And the musical murmur of streamlet is heard,
    As its waters flow gently along:—
‘Tis then that I feel what a mystical charm
    The whole of my being doth fill;
For I love to be out, and see Nature awake,
    So calm, so serene, and so still.

When the bright Summer day its full splendour attains,
    Nor a cloud dims the azure blue sky,
The breezes are laden with perfume of flowers,
    The Orchard’s sweet bloom meets the eye;
And the farmstead so white, with its newly-thatched roof,
    To the scene a new beauty doth lend,
And the bright wavy corn with its mellowy glow
    Beneath its rich treasure doth bend;
‘Tis then that I wander through meadows so green,
    Where the farmer, so blithesome and gay,
Is gathering into the garner his store
    Of the full-ripen’d, sweet-scented hay.

At the close of the day, when to its repose
    The spirit of nature doth fly,
The nightingale warbles its sweet even-song,
    The bright star of eve lights the sky;
While in dingle and dell, where the wild flowers dwell,
    And the bird o’er its nestlings doth brood,
Not a sound can be heard, save the murmur of bees,
    Returning to home with their food;—
‘Tis then that I sit by the bank of some stream,
    And gaze on the scene with delight,
Till the bright vision fadeth away from my view,
    Shut in by the curtain of night.


James Duxbury 1854 – ????