Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MORNING, by ANONYMOUS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MORNING, by                    
First Line: "offspring of modern poetry, attend"
Last Line: "demands my care': then kiss me ere we part. / here, hannah, take these breakfast things away"
Subject(s): Morning;poetry & Poets


OFFSPRING of modern poetry, attend,
Nymph with thy sunburnt cheek and ostrich eye!
Ah, heed my call, thy footsteps hither bend,
Still thoughtless, prattling still, Simplicity.

Thou that delightest o'er the level lawn
To pace along with never-varying feet,
Till dusky evening from the peep of dawn,
Nor wish one flower thy vacant eye to greet.

Come, with thy pleasing robe of heathy brown,
Of woollen manufacture trimly dight,
Which flows indeed, and scarcely flows, adown,
And not a fold misleads the steady sight.

I call thee, Nymph; for o'er the British plains
Wide and more wide thou spread'st thy sovereign sway;
Inspire my ready pen with such sweet strains
As modern poets neither sing nor say.

Bright morning be the theme, domestic morn;
Then will the poem like the subject shine,
If thou, Simplicity, my verse adorn,
And shed thy soothing self o'er every line.

Lo! the gay sun, high-raised, his livelier gleams
Warm through my window now begins to pour,
Where waving woodbines interrupt his beams
With chequered shadows trembling on the floor.

Scene of calm breakfasting and wedded peace,
Smiling I view thee, where no cares intrude;
Where dwell Love, Harmony and placid Ease,
Sworn foes to sullen frowns and jarrings rude.
And what sweet voice allures my list'ning ears?
Methought I heard my lovely Jessy's call:
Saw'st thou thy mistress, Hannah, come downstairs?
'Yes, sir, she just now passed along the hall.'

Did she? Bid John then hither bring my shoes,
And, Hannah, get the breakfast ready soon;
Say, are the letters brought, or is the news?
That tedious postman seldom comes till noon.

But soft ye now—here comes my gentle dame.
My love—behold the things in order stand;
Dear partner of my life and of my name,
The glossy teacups wait thy ready hand.

She smiles obliging and we sit serene;
Whatever can, to sight or smell or taste
(Like, raptured Milton, thy sweet garden scene),
Be thought or found adorns the calm repast.

Gratefully mild, the fragrant hyson tea
Best pleases me, exotic teas among;
With strong distaste I shun the harsh bohea,
Whose grating roughness much offends the tongue.

How cool these tea-rolls in the summer hours!
The smoking muffin now averse we fly;
Cold bread and well-washed butter now be ours
'But no hot rolls and butter in July.'

Thus while my humble board kind heav'n shall bless,
Is there aught else, my love, that I can wish?
Is there?—You doubt: what would that look express?
She smiles, and smiling cries, 'Another dish.'

True, my arch-monitress—all thanks are poor—
Crown then my wishes in this dear repast,
Crown them, my Jessy, yet with one dish more,
And let this dish be sweeter than the last.

But hark! methought I heard the clarion blow,
With swelling cheeks which tardy postmen use:
Well, John, what brings he? Any letters?—'No,
He brings you nothing, sir, except the news.'

Well then—the Chronicle of high St. James—
We'll read this history of weeks and days,
Of kings and queens and squires and wedded dames,
Wars, burials, births, Pantheons, books, highways.

Their Majesties to Richmond are retired,
In peaceful solitude to pass their hours.
Thrice happy pair! your virtues are admired;
Be love, be harmony, for ever yours!

The King (God bless him!) is an honest man;
To the Queen's virtues Envy's self is just:
I'll praise him sometimes—as I sometimes can—
And praise her always—as I always must.

Look, Jessy, what a busy bustling world!
What India-scenes of plunder and debate!
What realms and states in dire confusion hurled,
Impelled by savage pride and more than savage hate!

Here the stern Russian raves with horrid speed;
See there the Turk advancing half the way:
Grim Death applauds the scene and takes his meed
By thousands and ten thousands in a day.

Was it for this, vain man, that God designed
His fair creation with such wond'rous art?
Was it for this he gave th' immortal mind,
And stamped the heavenly form and feeling heart?

Oh, if war's horrid storm its rage must pour,
Far may it howl from this our humble shed;
At distance may we hear the savage roar
Of human tigers that with blood are fed!

Tired of the scene, with pleasure I return,
Dear peaceful home! to rest my mind on thee:
For thee with gratitude to heaven I burn,
Which gave me all—for thou art all to me.

Blest be that gracious Pow'r who kindly laid,
From the world's sea, my little bark ashore;
Gave me content in still retirement's shade,
And bade my heart be happy and be poor;

That gave me thee, my Jessy—thee, my wife;
Well-pleased I dwell upon that tender name,
Which speaks th' endearing ties of social life
In titles nobler than the rolls of fame.

You smile, my Jessy, at my full fond heart;
'Love forms these smiles—but business of the day
Demands my care': then kiss me ere we part.
Here, Hannah, take these breakfast things away.





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