THOMAS MILLER. And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-winged shadows o'ermy sunny brow! Thou blushest from the painter's page, Robed in the mimic tints of art; But Nature's hand in youth's green age With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart. The morning's blush, she made it thine; The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee; And in thy look, my Columbine! Each fond-remembered spot she bade me see. I see the hill's far-gazing head, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear light-bounding footsteps tread The grassy path that winds along the vale. I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and well. known tree, And, on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee. O'er the dark rock the dashing brook, With look of anger, leaps again, Fair child of art! thy charms decay, of And hushed the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime: The village-bells, with silver chime, And in this hushed and breathless close, All these their Maker own. Now Nature sinks in soft repose, JOHN KEBLE, [1796-1821.] MORNING. O, TIMELY happy, timely wise, New every morning is the love |