Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring Or leaf but hath his _morning_ hymn; each bush And oak doth know I AM--canst thou not sing? O leave thy cares and follies! Go this way, And thou art sure to prosper all the day. _Mornings_ are mysteries: the first world’s youth, Man’s resurrection, and the future’s bud, Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth, Is styled their star; the stone and hidden food: Three blessings wait upon them, one of which Should move--They make us holy, happy, rich. _Henry Vaughan._ Again the Lord of life and light Awakes the kindling ray, Unseals the eyelids of the _morn_, And pours increasing day. O, what a night was that which wrapp’d The heathen world in gloom! O, what a sun which broke this day Triumphant from the tomb! This day be grateful homage paid, And loud Hosannah’s sung; Let gladness dwell on every heart, And praise on every tongue. Then thousand different lips shall join To hail this happy _morn_; Which scatters blessings from its wings On nations yet unborn. _Barbauld._ Through the vales the breezes sigh; Twilight opes her bashful eye, Peeping from the east, she brings Dew-drops on her dusky wings: And the lark, with wak’ning lay, Upsprings, the harbinger of day. Now behold! the blushing sky Tells the bridegroom sun is nigh; Nature tunes her joyful lyre, And the trembling stars retire, Him the east, in crimson drest, Ushers, nature’s welcome guest, And the mountains of the west Seem to lift their azure heads, Jealous of the smile he sheds. Glory, beaming from on high, Charms devotion’s lifted eye; Bliss, to which sluggards ne’er were born, Waits the attendant of the _morn_. _Maria Colling._ The _morning_ breaks, And earth in her Maker’s smile awakes; His light is on all, below and above, The light of gladness, and life, and love. O, then, on the breath of this early air, Send up the incense of grateful prayer! _Henry Ware, Jun._ The God of mercy walks His round From day to day, from year to year, And warns us each with awful sound, “No longer stand ye idle here.” Ye, whose young cheeks are rosy bright, Whose hands are strong, whose hearts are clear, Waste not of youth the _morning_ light, Oh fools, why stand ye idle here? And ye, whose scanty locks of grey Foretel your latest travail near, How fast declines your useless day, And stand ye yet so idle here?