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AGNES DE CLIFFORD.

THE SUN his early ray has shed
Upon the mountain's peaked head-

The cloud which rested there thro' night
Receives his faint, imperfect light,
As dubious on the peak to stay,
Or yield before the new-born ray
That struggles with that misty cloud,
And longs to pierce its gloomy shroud.
The lark begins her carol clear,
That now salutes the peasant's ear,
As early to his daily toil

He treads the dew-drop spangled soil.
The forest trees, in stately pride,

With verdant leaves, and branches wide,
That shelter yield throughout the day
To pilgrim faint, or shepherd gray,
Refuse one withered leaf to spare,
So faint the wind that fans the air,
No sound along the vale is heard--
The ocean is by winds unstirred-
Not even yet the hunter's horn
Upon the morning breeze is borne..
The gentle murmur of the stream
That glides like pleasure in a dream,

Cau scarce be said the calm to break

That reigns o'er mountain, wood, and lake. 'Tis not the silent transient calm

That brings the twilight hour's balm,

When sunlight the horizon gilds,
And palaces and castles builds

Of clouds, on which the setting rays
Pour the full splendour of their blaze-
When man, his daily labour done,
His course of busy warfare run,
Feels the soft influence of the hour
Fall on his heart with holy pow'r,
And for a while his spirit knows
A transient feeling of repose.
"Tis not the silence calm and deep,
When Nature's works are hushed asleep,
When the pale moon with hazy ray
O'er mighty forests loves to play,
And pierce the darkness and the gloom
That dwell within their leafy tomb;
Or when she gives her pallid beam
To dance upon the flowing stream,
Whose infant waves still ripple on
And tremble 'neath her influence wan-
And thus in beauty sheds around
The mingled joy of light and sound;
The dew-drops sparkle in her light,
The clouds confess her reign by night,

As flitting o'er her virgin orb,
Their fleecy skirts her rays absorb-
And man her still, her soft control
Owns in each feeling of his soul.
It is the hour when manhood deems
That once again his early dreams
Return in all the pomp they wore
In all the loveliness of yore-

Ere life's dark storms, its clouds and tears,
Had dimmed the glory of his years—
Ere thoughts of sorrow, or of crime,
Were blended with his hopes sublime.
And Love, thine hour is surely this-
Oh what were all the world's best bliss,
Its deepest joy, its dearest thrill,
Which can attract man's spirit still,
(They ever have, they ever will)
If Love gave not his gladsome hue
To what with ardour we pursue.

And what were Love's even dearest hour
Without the moonlight's gentle power?
Her peaceful lustre seems to bring
The feelings that from true love spring-
Affection seems to blossom best
When Earth's dim sorrows are at rest-
And Love seems brightest when the night
Has veiled the earth from day's rich light;
The lover owns the gentle sway

That lurks beneath her placid ray

His mistress' smile hath more of charm-
Her voice his spirit can disarm

Of jealousy and dark distrust,
Which wait on love, and ever must.
So soothing still, so calmly sweet,

The hour when hearts in rapture meet.
BUT tho' this time hath peace and balm,
'Tis not the vesper hour's calm—
Nor yet the deep, the solemn time
When midnight raises thoughts sublime:
But buoyant, fresh, and ruddy morn-
Before the early breeze is born-
Before the hum and glare of day
Have called the insects into play-
Before the world hath burst the thrall
That grateful sleep hath cast o'er all—
When he that wakes to hail the streak
Of light that gilds the mountain peak,
The first sweet odour to inhale
That comes upon the morning gale-
Whose footsteps crush the dewy globes
That flowers wear as nightly robes-
A purer, fresher, joy will feel
Than eve or moonlight can reveal.

Is it to feel morn's breezy health
That yonder figure creeps by stealth,

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