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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Summer Morning, by Thomas Miller.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 66946 ***</div>
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of the book's cover is unavailable.]" /></a>
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<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span>  </p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span>  </p>
<p class="cspc">SUMMER MORNING.</p>
<p class="cb"><small>LONDON:<br />
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY<br />
Bangor House, Shoe Lane.</small></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span>  </p>
<h1>
SUMMER MORNING.</h1>
<p class="cb">A POEM.<br />
<br />
BY<br />
THOMAS MILLER.<br />
<br /><small>
AUTHOR OF “A DAY IN THE WOODS,” “RURAL SKETCHES,”<br />
“BEAUTIES OF THE COUNTRY,” “ROYSTON GOWER,” “FAIR ROSAMOND,”<br />
“LADY JANE GREY,” “GIDEON GILES,” ETC.<br /></small>
<br />
<img src="images/title.jpg"
width="425"
alt="" /><br />
<br />
LONDON:<br />
JAMES HAYWARD AND CO. 53, PATERNOSTER ROW.<br />
——<br />
1841.<br />
</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span>  </p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span>  </p>
<h1>SUMMER MORNING.</h1>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Morning</span> again breaks through the mines of Heaven,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And shakes her jewelled kirtle on the sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Heavy with rosy gold. Aside are driven<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The vassal clouds, which bow as she draws nigh,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And catch her scattered gems of orient dye,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The pearlèd-ruby which her pathway strews;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Argent and amber, now thrown useless by.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The uncoloured clouds wear what she doth refuse,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For only once does Morn her sun-dyed garments use.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">No print of sheep-track yet hath crushed a flower;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The spider’s woof with silvery dew is hung<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As it was beaded ere the daylight hour:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The hookèd bramble just as it was strung,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When on each leaf the Night her crystals flung,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then hurried off, the dawning to elude;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Before the golden-beakèd blackbird sung,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or ere the yellow-brooms, or gorses rude,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Had bared their armèd heads in lowly gratitude.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">From Nature’s old cathedral sweetly ring<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The wild-bird choirs—burst of the woodland band,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Green-hooded nuns, who ’mid the blossoms sing;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Their leafy temple, gloomy, tall, and grand,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Pillared with oaks, and roofed with Heaven’s own hand.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hark! how the anthem rolls through arches dun:—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“Morning again is come to light the land;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The great world’s Comforter, the mighty Sun,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Has yoked his golden steeds, the glorious race to run.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Those dusky foragers, the noisy rooks,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Have from their green high city-gates rushed out,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To rummage furrowy fields and flowery nooks;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">On yonder branch now stands their glossy scout.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">As yet no busy insects buzz about,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No fairy thunder o’er the air is rolled:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The drooping buds their crimson lips still pout;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Those stars of earth, the daisies white, unfold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And soon the buttercups will give back “gold for gold.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Hark! hark! the lark” sings ’mid the silvery blue;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Behold her flight, proud man! and lowly bow.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She seems the first that does for pardon sue,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">As though the guilty stain which lurks below<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Had touched the flowers that drooped above her brow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When she all night slept by the daisies’ side;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And now she soars where purity doth flow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where new-born light is with no sin allied,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And pointing with her wings Heaven-ward our thoughts would guide.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In belted gold the bees with “merry march”<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Through flowery towns go sounding on their way:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They pass the streakèd woodbine’s sun-stained arch,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And onward glide through streets of sheeted May,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Nor till they reach the summer-roses stay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where maiden-buds are wrapt in dewy dreams,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Drowsy through breathing back the new-mown hay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That rolls its fragrance o’er the fringèd streams,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mirrors in which the Sun now decks his quivering beams.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Uprise the lambs, fresh from their flowery slumber,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">(The daisies they pressed down rise from the sod;)—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He guardeth them who every star doth number,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Who called His Son a lamb,—“the Lamb of God;”<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And for His sake withdrew th’ uplifted rod,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bidding each cloud turn to a silvery fleece,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The imaged flock for which our Shepherd trod<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The paths of sorrow, that we might find peace:—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Those emblems of his love will wave till time shall cease.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">On the far sky leans the old ruined mill,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Through its rent sails the broken sunbeams glow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gilding the trees that belt the lower hill,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And the old thorns which on its summit grow.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Only the reedy marsh that sleeps below,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With its dwarf bushes, is concealed from view;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And now a struggling thorn its head doth show,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Another half shakes off the smoky blue,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Just where the dusty gold streams through the heavy dew:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And there the hidden river lingering dreams,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You scarce can see the banks which round it lie;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That withered trunk, a tree, or shepherd seems,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Just as the light or fancy strikes the eye.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Even the very sheep, which graze hard by,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So blend their fleeces with the misty haze,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">They look like clouds shook from the unsunned sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ere morning o’er the eastern hills did blaze:—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The vision fades as they move further on to graze.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A chequered light streams in between the leaves,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Which on the greensward twinkle in the sun;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The deep-voiced thrush his speckled bosom heaves,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And like a silver stream his song doth run,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Down the low vale, edgèd with fir-trees dun.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A little bird now hops beside the brook,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“Peaking” about like an affrighted nun;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And ever as she drinks doth upward look,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Twitters and drinks again, then seeks her cloistered nook.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What varied colours o’er the landscape play!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The very clouds seem at their ease to lean,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the whole earth to keep glad holiday.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The lowliest bush that by the waste is seen,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Hath changed its dusky for a golden green<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In honour of this lovely Summer Morn:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The rutted roads did never seem so clean,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There is no dust upon the wayside thorn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For every bud looks out as if but newly born.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A cottage girl trips by with side-long look,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Steadying the little basket on her head;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And where a plank bridges the narrow brook<br /></span>
<span class="i2">She stops, to see her fair form shadowèd.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The stream reflects her cloak of russet red;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Below she sees the trees and deep-blue sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The flowers which downward look in that clear bed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The very birds which o’er its brightness fly:—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She parts her loose-blown hair, then wondering passes by.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Now other forms move o’er the footpaths brown<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In twos and threes; for it is Market-day.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Beyond those hills stretches a little town,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And thitherward the rustics bend their way,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Crossing the scene in blue, and red, and grey;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Now by green hedge-rows, now by oak-trees old,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">As they by stile or thatchèd cottage stray.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Peep through the rounded hand, and you’ll behold<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Such gems as Morland drew, in frames of sunny gold.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A ladened ass, a maid with wicker maun’,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A shepherd lad driving his lambs to sell,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gaudy-dressed girls move in the rosy dawn,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Women whose cloaks become the landscape well,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Farmers whose thoughts on crops and prizes dwell;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An old man with his cow and calf draws near.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Anon you hear the Village Carrier’s bell;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then does his grey old tilted cart appear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Moving so slow, you think he never will get there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">They come from still green nooks, woods old and hoary,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The silent work of many a summer night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ere those tall trees attained their giant glory,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or their dark tops did tower that cloudy height:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">They come from spots which the grey hawthorns light,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where stream-kissed willows make a silvery shiver.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For years their steps have worn those footpaths bright<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which wind along the fields and by the river,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That makes a murmuring sound, a “ribble-bibble” ever.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A troop of soldiers pass with stately pace,—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Their early music wakes the village street:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through yon white blinds peeps many a lovely face,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Smiling—perchance unconsciously how sweet!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">One does the carpet press with blue-veined feet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Not thinking how her fair neck she exposes,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But with white foot timing the drum’s deep beat;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, when again she on her pillow dozes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dreams how she’ll dance that tune ’mong Summer’s richest roses.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So let her dream, even as beauty should!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Let the white plumes athwart her slumbers sway!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why should I steep their swaling snow in blood,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or bid her think of battle’s grim array?<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Truth will too soon her blinding star display,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And like a fearful comet meet her eyes.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And yet how peaceful they pass on their way!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How grand the sight as up the hill they rise!—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I will not think of cities reddening in the skies.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">How sweet those rural sounds float by the hill!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The grasshopper’s shrill chirp rings o’er the ground,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The jingling sheep-bells are but seldom still,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The clapping gate closes with hollow bound,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">There’s music in the church-clock’s measured sound.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The ring-dove’s song, how breeze-like comes and goes,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Now here, now there, it seems to wander round:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The red cow’s voice along the upland flows;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His bass the brindled bull from the far meadow lows.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Cuckoo! cuckoo!” ah! well I know thy note,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Those summer-sounds the backward years do bring,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like Memory’s locked-up barque once more afloat:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">They carry me away to life’s glad spring,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To home, with all its old boughs rustleìng.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Tis a sweet sound! but now I feel not glad;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I miss the voices which were wont to sing,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When on the hills I roamed, a happy lad.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Cuckoo!” it is the grave—not thee—that makes me sad.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Tell me, ye sages, whence these feelings rise,—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Sorrowful mornings on the darkened soul;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Glimpses of broken, bright, and stormy skies,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">O’er which this earth—the heart—has no control?<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Why does the sea of thought thus backward roll?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Memory’s the breeze that through the cordage raves,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And ever drives us on some home-ward shoal,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As if she loved the melancholy waves<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That, murmuring shore-ward break, over a reef of graves.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hark how the merry bells ring o’er the vale,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Now near, remote, or lost, just as it blows.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The red cock sends his voice upon the gale,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From the thatched grange his answering rival crows:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The milkmaid o’er the dew-bathed meadow goes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her tucked-up kirtle ever holding tight;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And now her song rings through the green hedge-rows,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her milk-kit hoops glitter like silver bright:—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I hear her lover singing somewhere out of sight.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Where soars that spire, our rude forefathers prayed;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thither they came, from many a thick-leaved dell<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Year after year, and o’er those footpaths strayed,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When summoned by the sounding Sabbath bell,—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For in those walls they deemed that God did dwell.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And still they sleep within that bell’s deep sound.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Yon Spire doth here of no distinction tell;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O’er rich and poor, marble, and earthly mound,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Monument of all,—it marks one common ground.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">See yonder smoke, before it curls to Heaven<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Mingles its blue amid the elm-trees tall;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shrinking like one who fears to be forgiven,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So on the earth again doth prostrate fall,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And ’mid the bending green each sin recall.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Now from their beds the cottage-children rise,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Roused by some early playmate’s noisy bawl;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, on the door-step standing, rub their eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stretching their little arms, and gaping at the skies.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The leaves “drop, drop,” and dot the crisped stream<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So quick, each circle wears the first away;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Far out the tufted bulrush seems to dream,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And to the ripple nods its head alway;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The water-flags with one another play,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bowing to every breeze that blows between,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">While purple dragon-flies their wings display:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The restless swallow’s arrowy flight is seen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dimpling the sunny wave, then lost amid the green.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The boy who last night passed that darksome lane,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Trembling at every sound, and pale with fear;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who shook when the long leaves talked to the rain,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And tried to sing, his sinking heart to cheer;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Hears now no brook wail ghost-like on his ear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No dead-man’s groan in the black-beetle’s wing:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But where the deep-dyed butterflies appear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And on the flowers like folded pea-blooms swing,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With napless hat in hand he after them doth spring.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In the far sky the distant landscape melts,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Like pilèd clouds tinged with a darker hue;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Even the wood which yon high upland belts<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Looks like a range of clouds, of deeper blue.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">One withered tree bursts only on the view,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A bald bare oak, which on the summit grows,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">(And looks as if from out the sky it grew:)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That tree has borne a thousand wintry snows,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And seen unnumbered mornings gild its gnarled boughs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Yon weather-beaten grey old finger-post<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Stands like Time’s land-mark pointing to decay;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The very roads it once marked out are lost:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The common was encroached on every day<br /></span>
<span class="i2">By grasping men who bore an unjust sway,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And rent the gift from Charity’s dead hands.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The post does still one broken arm display,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which now points out where the New Workhouse stands,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As if it said “Poor man! those walls are all thy lands.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Where o’er yon woodland-stream dark branches bow,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Patches of blue are let in from the sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Throwing a chequered underlight below,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Where the deep waters steeped in gloom roll by;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Looking like Hope, who ever watcheth nigh,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And throws her cheering ray o’er life’s long night,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When wearied man would fain lie down and die.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Past the broad meadow now it rolleth bright,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which like a mantle green seems edged with silver light.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">All things, save Man, this Summer morn rejoice:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Sweet smiles the sky, so fair a world to view;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Unto the earth below the flowers give voice;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Even the wayside-weed of homeliest hue<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Looks up erect amid the golden blue,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And thus it speaketh to the thinking mind:—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“O’erlook me not! I for a purpose grew,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Though long mayest thou that purpose try to find,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On us one sunshine falls! God only is not blind!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span>”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">England, my country!—land that gave me birth!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Where those I love, living or dead, still dwell,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Most sacred spot—to me—of all the earth;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">England! “with all thy faults I love thee well.”<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With what delight I hear thy Sabbath bell<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fling to the sky its ancient English sound,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">As if to the wide world it dared to tell<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We own a God, who guards this envied ground,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bulwarked with martyrs’ bones—where Fear was never found.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Here might a sinner humbly kneel and pray,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With this bright sky, this lovely scene in view,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And worship Him who guardeth us alway!—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Who hung these lands with green, this sky with blue,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Who spake, and from these plains huge cities grew;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who made thee, mighty England! what thou art,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And asked but gratitude for all His due.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Giver, God! claims but the beggar’s part,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And only doth require “a humble, contrite heart.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="fint">London: Printed by Samuel Bentley, Bangor House, Shoe Lane.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 66946 ***</div>
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