Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol III, No 13, 1851. Various

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      Falsely luxurious, will not man awake;

      And, springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy

      The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour,

      To meditation due and sacred song?

      For is there aught in sleep can charm the wise?

      To lie in dead oblivion, losing half

      The fleeting moments of too short a life;

      Total extinction of the enlighten'd soul!

      Or else to feverish vanity alive,

      Wilder'd, and tossing through distemper'd dreams

      Who would in such a gloomy state remain

      Longer than nature craves; when every muse

      And every blooming pleasure wait without,

      To bless the wildly devious morning-walk?

      But yonder comes the powerful king of day,

      Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud,

      The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow

      Illum'd with fluid gold, his near approach

      Betoken glad. Lo! now apparent all,

      Aslant the dew-bright earth, and color'd air,

      He looks in boundless majesty abroad;

      And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays

      On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams,

      High-gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer, light!

      Of all material beings first, and best!

      Efflux divine! Nature's resplendent robe!

      Without whose vesting beauty all were wrapp'd

      In unessential gloom; and thou, O sun!

      Soul of surrounding worlds! in whom best seen

      Shines out thy Maker! may I sing of thee?

      'Tis by thy secret, strong, attractive force,

      As with a chain indissoluble bound,

      Thy system rolls entire; from the far bourn

      Of utmost Saturn, wheeling wide his round

      Of thirty years, to Mercury, whose disk

      Can scarce be caught by philosophic eye,

      Lost in the near effulgence of thy blaze.

      Informer of the planetary train!

      Without whose quickening glance their cumbrous orbs

      Were brute unlovely mass, inert and dead,

      And not, as now, the green abodes of life —

      How many forms of being wait on thee!

      Inhaling spirit; from the unfetter'd mind,

      By thee sublim'd, down to the daily race,

      The mixing myriads of thy setting beam.

      The vegetable world is also thine,

      Parent of Seasons! who the pomp precede

      That waits thy throne, as through thy vast domain,

      Annual, along the bright ecliptic-road,

      In world-rejoicing state, it moves sublime.

      Meantime the expecting nations, circled gay

      With all the various tribes of foodful earth,

      Implore thy bounty, or send grateful up

      A common hymn; while, round thy beaming car,

      High-seen, the Seasons lead, in sprightly dance

      Harmonious knit, the rosy-finger'd hours,

      The zephyrs floating loose, the timely rains,

      Of bloom ethereal the light-footed dews,

      And soften'd into joy the surly storms.

      These, in successive turn, with lavish hand,

      Shower every beauty, every fragrance shower,

      Herbs, flowers, and fruits; till, kindling at thy touch,

      From land to land is flush'd the vernal year.

      Nor to the surface of enliven'd earth,

      Graceful with hills and dales, and leafy woods,

      Her liberal tresses, is thy force confin'd —

      But, to the bowel'd cavern darting deep,

      The mineral kinds confess thy mighty power.

      Effulgent, hence the veiny marble shines;

      Hence labor draws his tools; hence burnish'd war

      Gleams on the day; the nobler works of peace

      Hence bless mankind; and generous commerce binds

      The round of nations in a golden chain.

      The unfruitful rock itself, impregn'd by thee,

      In dark retirement forms the lucid stone.

      The lively diamond drinks thy purest rays,

      Collected light, compact; that, polish'd bright.

      And all its native lustre let abroad,

      Dares, as it sparkles on the fair one's breast,

      With vain ambition emulate her eyes.

      At thee the ruby lights its deepening glow,

      And with a waving radiance inward flames.

      From thee the sapphire, solid ether, takes

      Its hue cerulean; and, of evening tinct,

      The purple streaming amethyst is thine.

      With thy own smile the yellow topaz burns;

      Nor deeper verdure dyes the robe of Spring,

      When first she gives it to the southern gale,

      Than the green emerald shows. But, all combin'd,

      Thick through the whitening opal play thy beams;

      Or, flying several from its surface, form

      A trembling variance of revolving hues,

      As the site varies in the gazer's hand.

      The very dead creation, from thy touch,

      Assumes a mimic life. By thee refin'd,

      In brighter mazes the relucent stream

      Plays o'er the mead. The precipice abrupt,

      Projecting horror on the blacken'd flood,

      Softens at thy return. The desert joys

      Wildly, through all his melancholy bounds.

      Rude ruins glitter; and the briny deep,

      Seen from some pointed promontory's top,

      Far to the blue horizon's utmost verge,

      Restless, reflects a floating gleam. But this,

      And all the much-transported muse can sing,

      Are to thy beauty, dignity, and use,

      Unequal far; great delegated source

      Of light, and life, and grace, and joy below!

      How shall I then attempt to sing of him,

      Who, Light himself! in uncreated light

      Invested deep, dwells awfully retired

      From mortal eye, or angel's purer ken,

      Whose single smile has, from the first of time,

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