Morning (Burleigh Family Poetry Contest)

MORNING (803) – family poetry slam
I.    [Karl Neal??]
Thee O, my God! I praise anew
For this morning pure and fair
I bless thee for the gentle dew
And for the balmy air

The song of many a happy bird
Is pulled from glistening spray
And yonder goes quiet herd
Full glad to greet the day

The streams in gentle murmurs flow
And sunlight tips the hill
The heavens above and earth below
Say Gog is father still.

The light is dancing in trees[?]
The rosy[?] air breathes love
The glad sounds lowing breezes
Proclaim our God is above

II.    [George Shepard Burleigh]
The Morning dons her robes anew
     Uprising radiant and fair.
Her locks are jewelled with the dew
     That flashes in the rosy air.

The songs of many a joyous bird
     Half-hid below the verdant spray
Through all the woody vale are heard
     Exulting in the new-born day

The rills with gladder twinkle flo
     Dance gladder down the grassy hill
Singing melodious and low
     Their songs with music never still

A ripple runs along the trees
     That hum like whisperings of love
Now life has filled the scented breeze
    With freshness from the bowers above.

III.    [Lottie Beebee]
O thou! to whom all things are new
     And all things old, divinely fair,
As grand art thou, in dropping dew
     As in the glory of the air.

To thee the song of tiniest bird
     That may not ben the slenderest spray,
The bleatings of the waking herd
    Are Memnon-music, day by day.

The ocean in majestic flow,
     The sunlight gilding yonder hill,
Each chants its anthem loud or low,
    Each tells that thou art never still,

That in the leafage of the trees,
     The garlands of thy boundless love
And in the murmuring of the breeze
    Thou art on earth, as there above.

IV.    [William Burleigh]
Sweet morning ope thine eye anew!
     Look on the waking Earth so fair,
That loves to drink thy crystal few
     And joys to breathe thy spicy air;

Thine eye, it gladdens every bird
     That sits and sings upon the spray
We who its songs of gladness heard
    Have blest and bless thee every day.

Under thine eye the brooklets flow
     More musically down the hill
‘Till in the valley green and low
     Their sunny waves are gathered still.

Come, Morn, of thee the dreamy trees
     Are murmuring their words of love
And praise, To every sleepy breeze
     That sallies in the air above.

V.     [Charles Calistus Burleigh]
The Lord hath made the day anew
     And set it off with trimmings fair
Powdered the green-wigged hills with dew
     And touched with rouge the faded air.

Harmonious concert wakes of bird
     And tree-toad on the bending spray
While crickets in the grass are heard
     Boring the tender ear of day

Dawn from his jug the rivers flow
      And irrigate the thirsty hill;
By times the cows do drink & low
     By times eat soberly and still

He combs with winds the tangled trees,
     As swains their hair, when making love
Then brush-like slicks[?] them with a breeze
     Well graced (greased – CCB edit) with unction from above.

VI.    [Ruth Burgess Burleigh]
‘Twould please me to do something new
     Upon this day, so bright and fair
Could I but trip it o’er the dew
     In the fresh morning air!

And could I listen to the birds
     That warble in the dewy spray
Or go and homeward drive the herds
      For milking time this day!

Sit on the bank and watch the flow
     Or the bright river, from the hill,
And listen to its murmurs low
     While all the world is still.

Could I but climb those glorious trees
     Ah, that I’d dearly love!
Living on a branch, and take the breeze
     All comes of streams above [speculative transcription on this line]

VII.    {Gertrude Kimber Burleigh]
The earth around seems fresh and new;
The sky above is breight and fair,
The leaves, adorned with sparkling dew,
Are dancing in the balmy air.

A gay-winged, sweetly-warbling bird
Is caroling on every spray,
And loud, from every grove, is heard
A welcome to the rising day.

The glittering stream, in joyous flow,
Pour down the side of yonder hill;
The cattle in the pastures low,
The sheep, in groups, stand close & still

Beneath the tall and waving trees,
Where bards and sages often love
To pause and feel the gentle breezes
And lift their silent thoughts above.