Child of the light, fair morning hour,
Who smilest o'er yon purple hill!
I come to woo thy cheering pow'r,
Beside this murm'ring rill.
Nor I alone — a thousand songsters rise
To meet thy dawning, and thy sweets to share;
While ev'ry flow'r that scents the honied air,
Thy milder influence feels, and sheds its brightest dies.

And let me hear some village swain
Whistle in rustic glee along;
Or hear some true love's gentle pain
Breath'd from the milkmaid's song.
Wild are those notes, but sweeter far to me
Than the soft airs borne from Italian groves:
To which the wanton muse and naked loves
Strike the wild lyre, and dance in gamesome glee.

And rosy health, for whom so long
Mid sleepless nights I've sigh'd in vain,
Shall throw her airy vestment on,
And meet me on the plain.
Gay laughing nymph, that loves a morning sky;
That loves to trip across the spangled dews;
And with her finger dipp'd in brightest hues,
My faint cheek shall she tinge, and cheer my languid eye.

Then will I taste the morn's sweet hour,
And, singing, bless the new-born day;
Or, wand'ring in Amanda's bow'r,
Rifle the sweets of May:
And to my song Amanda shall attend,
And take the posie from the sylvan muse;
For sure the virtuous fair will not refuse
The muse's modest gifts, her tribute to a friend.