| |
| THE DAWN has broke, the morn is up, | |
| Another day begun; | |
| And there thy poised and gilded spear | |
| Is flashing in the sun, | |
| Upon that steep and lofty tower | 5 |
| Where thou thy watch hast kept, | |
| A true and faithful sentinel, | |
| While all around thee slept. | |
| |
| For years, upon thee, there has poured | |
| The summer’s noonday heat, | 10 |
| And through the long, dark, starless night | |
| The winter storms have beat; | |
| But yet thy duty has been done, | |
| By day and night the same, | |
| Still thou hast met and faced the storm, | 15 |
| Whichever way it came. | |
| |
| No chilling blast in wrath has swept | |
| Along the distant heaven, | |
| But thou hast watched its onward course, | |
| And distant warning given; | 20 |
| And, when midsummer’s sultry beams | |
| Oppress all living things, | |
| Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes | |
| With health upon its wings. | |
| |
| How oft I ’ve seen, at early dawn, | 25 |
| Or twilight’s quiet hour, | |
| The swallows, in their joyous glee, | |
| Come darting round their tower, | |
| As if, with thee, to hail the sun | |
| And catch his earliest light, | 30 |
| And offer ye the morn’s salute, | |
| Or bid ye both good night. | |
| |
| And when, around thee or above, | |
| No breath of air has stirred, | |
| Thou seem’st to watch the circling flight | 35 |
| Of each free, happy bird, | |
| Till, after twittering round thy head | |
| In many a mazy track, | |
| The whole delighted company | |
| Have settled on thy back. | 40 |
| |
| Then, if, perchance, amidst their mirth, | |
| A gentle breeze has sprung, | |
| And, prompt to mark its first approach, | |
| Thy eager form hath swung, | |
| I ’ve thought I almost heard thee say, | 45 |
| As far aloft they flew,— | |
| “Now all away! here ends our play, | |
| For I have work to do!” | |
| |
| Men slander thee, my honest friend, | |
| And call thee, in their pride, | 50 |
| An emblem of their fickleness, | |
| Thou ever-faithful guide. | |
| Each weak, unstable human mind | |
| A “weathercock” they call; | |
| And thus, unthinkingly, mankind | 55 |
| Abuse thee, one and all. | |
| |
| They have no right to make thy name | |
| A byword for their deeds: | |
| They change their friends, their principles, | |
| Their fashions, and their creeds; | 60 |
| Whilst thou hast ne’er, like them, been known | |
| Thus causelessly to range; | |
| But when thou changest sides, canst give | |
| Good reason for the change. | |
| |
| Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course | 65 |
| The thoughtless oft condemn, | |
| Art touched by many airs from heaven | |
| Which never breathe on them,— | |
| And moved by many impulses | |
| Which they do never know, | 70 |
| Who, round their earth-bound circles, plod | |
| The dusty paths below. | |
| |
| Through one more dark and cheerless night | |
| Thou well hast kept thy trust, | |
| And now in glory o’er thy head | 75 |
| The morning light has burst. | |
| And unto earth’s true watcher, thus, | |
| When his dark hours have passed, | |
| Will come “the day-spring from on high,” | |
| To cheer his path at last. | 80 |
| |
| Bright symbol of fidelity, | |
| Still may I think of thee; | |
| And may the lesson thou dost teach | |
| Be never lost on me; | |
| But still, in sunshine or in storm, | 85 |
| Whatever task is mine, | |
| May I be faithful to my trust, | |
| As thou hast been to thine. | |
| |
