The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, March 1844

Fanned into motion by thy breezy wings,
O, fragrant Morning! blows from off the earth
The congregated vapors, dank and foul,
By yesterday coagulate and mixed!
Miasmas steaming up from sunless fens;
The effluvia of vegetable death;
Disease exhaled from pestilential beds,
And Lust’s rank pantings and the fumes of wine;
All these, condensed in one pernicious gas
By Noon’s hot efflux and the reeking Night,
Thy filtering breezes make as fresh and sweet
As infant slumbers; pure as the virgin’s breath
Whispering her first love in the eager ear
Of her heart’s chosen.
On this climbing hill,
While, lost in ecstacy, I stand and gaze
On the fresh beauties of a world disrobed,
How does thy searching breath, oh, infant Day!
Inspire the languid frame with new-born life,
And all its sinking powers rejuvenate,
Freshening the murky hollows of the soul!
Good Heaven! How glorious this morning hour,
Nature’s new birth-time! All her mighty frame,
In lowly vale, on lofty mountain-top,
And wide savannah, stirs, with sprightful life,
Life irrepressible, whose eager thrill
Shoots to her very finger-tips, and makes
Each little flower through all her delicate threads
Each fibrous plant, each blade of corn or grass,
And each tall tree, through all its limbs and leaves,
Quiver and tremble.
The increasing light
Reveals the outlines of the shadowy hills,
And, charm by charm, the landscape all comes forth,
Wood, stream, and valley; while above that green
And waving ocean swells an endless vault
Of blue serenity, and round its verge
Kindles and flashes with rubescent gleams
The far horizon; till the whole appears
A sapphire dome, which, edged with golden rim,
Spans the green surges of an emerald sea.
The Sun is still unseen; yet far before
His chariot-wheels a train of glory marks
His kindling track, and all the air is now
A luminous ocean. Whence these floods of light,
Rich with all hues? Say! have the spheréd stars,
Powdered in shining atoms, fallen and filled
The ambient air with their invisible dews?
Or have the fugitive particles of light,
The Sun’s lost emanations, which all night
Lay hid in hollows of the earth, or slept
In vegetable cells, come forth to greet
Their monarch’s coming? Are they pioneers
Sent to prepare his way, and raise his bright
Victorious banner, that their sovereign’s eye
From his serene pavilion may behold
No lingering shadow from the gloomy host
Of hateful Darkness, who hast westward borne
His routed army and his fading flag?
Alas! proud Science, Fancy’s sneering foe,
Says they are but the Sun’s refracted rays,
And scintillations from his burning wheels.

Earth’s bride-groom rises. Round his glittering head
He shakes his streamy locks, and fast and far
Sheds showers of splendor; and his blushing bride,
Recumbent on her grassy couch, scarce opes
Her bashful eyes to meet his ardent gaze.
While at the advent of her lord, the Earth,
Marking his shining footsteps, with a smile
Remembers the espousals of her youth,
When morning stars rang out the nuptial song[4 - ‘When the morning stars sang together,’ etc. Job: xxxviii., 7. In the same chapter observe the astonishing boldness of scripture personification, and the unequalled pomp of oriental imagery.]
In jubilant chorus; on her milky breast,
All the green nurslings of his favor raise
Their dewy heads, and welcome his approach
With thankful greetings; and each gentle flower
Turns her fair face to the munificent god
Of her idolatry, and well repays
His warm caresses with her perfumed breath.

But while inanimate nature takes the shows
Of life, and joy, and deep and passionate sense,
The animal kingdom sleeps not; all its tribes
Swell the glad anthem. Birds, that all night long
Slept and dreamed sweetly ’neath their folded wings,
At nature’s summons are awakening now;
Nor unmelodiously; for from their throats,
In many a warbling trill, or mingled gush,
Comes music of such sweet and innocent strength,
As might force tears from the black murderer’s eyes,
And make the sighing captive, while he weeps
His own hard wrongs, lift his chained hands, and pray
For his oppressor more than for himself.

Thou, too, my soul, if wearing years have left
Aught of high feeling in thy wasted powers,
Of gratitude for mercies undeserved,
Or hope of future favors, here and now,
Upon this breezy hill-top, in the eye
Of the bright day-god rising from his sleep,