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Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889

The Waking of the Sun

By Nathaniel Ames (1708–1764)

THE WINDS, disturbed, with horrid murmurs rise,

And mix the foamy billows with the skies;

The earth, as dead, no fruit nor comfort yields,

Wrinkled and fled ’s the beauty of the fields:

But when proud Aries ushers in the spring,

And Sol returns to comfort us again,

The earth revives, and clothes herself with green,

And rich embroideries on the meads are seen.

His gentle rays Orion’s bands despoil;

And genial warmth makes jocund Nature smile,

Unlocks the virgin bosom of the flowers,

And bread and wine distil in April showers.

The winged musicians welcome him with notes,

As Orpheus’ lyre were tuned in their throats,

So charmed are we their harmony to hear,

That all our very soul gets in the ear.

When for repose he yields to shady night,

And in his ebon box locks up the light;

And darkness with her sable mantle covers,

Sweet stolen sports of joyful meeting lovers;

His starry parliament, those twinkling fires,

That sit in council whilst their Lord retires,

Adorn the ample canopy with light,

And sparkle on the gloomy brow of night.

Ere this bright prince uplifts his golden head,

From the soft pillow of his sea-green bed,

Aurora in her blooming splendor dressed,

Comes blushing from her chamber in the east;

Her rosy hand the dusky cloud adorns,

That Iris’ painted bow she almost scorns.

Enfringed with gold, and rich embroideries laid;

Whence mingling lights reflect a beauteous shade.

All this refulgent glory o’er his head

Prepared against, he ’s pleased to quit his bed.

His pale faced queen, who wore his silver-light

And handed down his glories all the night,

When he comes forth, declares her social dread,

And at his glorious presence hides her head.

The lesser orbs, that nightly set and rise,

Yield up their light when he ascends the skies.

Nor needs their light, with glory all his own,

Rides through the heavens unrivalled on his throne.

Meanwhile his eye, our rolling world surveys,

And gilds its mountains with his golden rays,

Fattening with grass and vines each fruitful vale,

To feed the brute, and cheerful man regale.

Expels the horrors of the dreary night,

Gladdening the dumpish soul with beamy light,

And courts with beauteous objects the admiring sight.

He clothes material nature with his rays;

Thus blest our hemisphere, the whilst he stays,

Until the proud, ambitious, envious West,

Too eager to enjoy this princely guest,

Calls him to bed; where, ravished from our sight,

He leaves us to the solemn frowns of night.