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LLANBADARN PETTY SESSIONS.

MORNING.

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MORNING. THE martin twitters from its piddy height A hymn of praise to hail the brightening ray, That stares the sable hosts of dreary night, And wide jiroclaiills the rising orb of day. t'p from the reeking grass, on dewy wings, i ne Hdmui laih pours iortn hisjoyous strains, Till clear to view the sun's brigtit disc she brings Above the shadowing hills that belt the plains. For waking morn smiles in the blushing East, And night, in haste, from every uiil-top glides; The owlets cowet; the fox, with pilfered feast, Back to his lair from out day's presence hides. Gay tulips ope their richly pencilled lips, And roses all have drank their fill uf dew; And many a toiling bee, impatient sips The honey fresh where favct their nectar drew. The lovelorn maiden throws her lattice wide To woo the freshness of the gentle breeze, Soothed by the stockdove's plaint, the habbling tide, And the soft voices of the murmuring trees. The drowsy shepherd hurries from his cot, The yawning ploughman stops his princely dreams Abruptly, told of tiis more humble lot By the loud neighing of his hungry teams. Behold he comes; the God of day is here, And glory bursts from every painted cloud; White nature, waking, pours her anthems clear, And hails the sight in accents long and loud. London. W. B.

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