Let those deplore their doom,
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.
But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?
Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?--
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!
BEATTIE
Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little
refreshed by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the
kindest blessing of the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement,
looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired the
pure air, her mind was soothed. The scene was filled with that cheering
freshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health, and she
heard only sweet and PICTURESQUE sounds, if such an expression may be
allowed--the matin-bell of a distant convent, the faint murmur of the
sea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low of cattle, which
she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees. Struck with
the circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the pensive
tranquillity which they inspired; and while she leaned on her window,
waiting till St. Aubert should descend to breakfast, her ideas arranged
themselves in the following lines:
THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING
How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade,
When early twilight, from the eastern bound,
Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,
And fades as morning spreads her blush around! When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night,
Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,
Expands its tender blossom to the light,
And gives its incense to the genial air. How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,
And swells the melody of waking birds;
The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,
And woodman's song, and low of distant herds! Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head,
Seen through the parting foliage from afar;
And, farther still, the ocean's misty bed,
With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share. But, vain the sylvan shade--the breath of May,
The voice of music floating on the gale,
And forms, that beam through morning's dewy veil,
If health no longer bid the heart be gay!
O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give,
Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!
Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently the
voice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them forth
from a hut adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who was now
risen, met her at the door, apparently as little restored by sleep as
herself. She led him down stairs to the little parlour, in which they
had supped on the preceding night, where they found a neat breakfast set
out, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them good-morrow.