Morning

James Beattie (1735–1803)

From “The Minstrel”

BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?

The wild brook babbling down the mountainside;

The lowing herd; the sheepfold’s simple bell;

The pipe of early shepherd dim descried

In the lone valley; echoing far and wide

The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;

The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;

The hum of bees, the linnet’s lay of love,

And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;

Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;

The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!

Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;

Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs;

Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour;

The partridge bursts away, on whirring wings;

Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower,

And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower.