Hues of the rich un­fold­ing morn,
That ere the glo­ri­ous sun be born,
By some soft touch in­vi­si­ble
Around his path are taught to swell!

Thou rust­ling breeze, so fresh and gay,
That danc­est forth at op­en­ing day,
And brush­ing by with joy­ous wing,
Wakenest each lit­tle leaf to sing.

Ye frag­rant clouds of dewy steam,
By which deep grove and tan­gled stream
Pay, for soft rains in sea­sons giv­en,
Their tri­bute to the ge­ni­al hea­ven.

Why waste your trea­sures of de­light
Upon our thank­less, joy­ous sight,
Who day by day to sin awake,
Seldom of Hea­ven and you partake?

Oh! time­ly hap­py, tim­ely wise,
Hearts that with ris­ing morn arise!
Eyes that the beam ce­les­ti­al view,
Which ev­er­more makes all things new!

New ev­ery morn­ing is the love
Our wak­en­ing and up­ris­ing prove;
Through sleep and dark­ness safe­ly brought,
Restored to life and pow­er and thought.

New mer­cies, each re­turn­ing day,
Hover around us while we pray;
New per­ils past, new sins for­giv­en,
New thoughts of God, new hopes of Hea­ven.

If, on our dai­ly course, our mind
Be set to hal­low all we find,
New trea­sures still, of count­less price,
God will pro­vide for sac­ri­fice.

Old friends, old scenes, will love­li­er be,
As more of Hea­ven in each we see;
Some soft­en­ing gleam of love and pray­er
Shall dawn on ev­ery cross and care.

As for some dear fa­mil­iar strain
Untired we ask, and ask again,
Ever, in its me­lo­dious store,
Finding a spell un­heard be­fore;

Such is the bliss of souls se­rene,
When they have sworn, and stead­fast mean,
Counting the cost, in all t’es­py
Their God, in all them­selves de­ny.

Oh could we learn that sac­ri­fice,
What lights would all around us rise!
How would our hearts with wis­dom talk
Along life’s dull­est, drea­ri­est walk!

We need not bid, for clois­tered cell,
Our neigh­bor and our work fare­well,
Nor strive to find our­selves too high
For sin­ful man be­neath the sky.

The tri­vi­al round, the com­mon task,
Will fur­nish all we ought to ask;
Room to de­ny our­selves, a road
To bring us dai­ly near­er God.

Seek we no more; con­tent with these,
Let pre­sent rap­ture, com­fort, ease—
As Hea­ven shall bid them, come and go:
The sec­ret this of rest be­low.

Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love,
Fit us for per­fect rest above,
And help us, this and ev­ery day,
To live more near­ly as we pray.