Morning

Now o'er the topmost pine,
The distant pine-clad peak,
There dawns a golden streak
Of light, an orient line: —
Phoebus, the light is thine,
Thine is the glory, — seek
Each dale and dewy creek,
And in full splendour shine!

Thy steeds now chafe and fret
To scour the dusky plain:
Speed forth with flashing rein,
Speed o'er the land, — and yet,
Ah! linger in this lane,
Kissing each violet.