LO the day begins to rise,
And the shadows of the night,
Overtaken with surprise,
Blushing fly his presence bright;
Cease thy briny tears to flow,
Not another murmur sigh;
Thine hath been the cup of woe,
Now be thine the cup of joy.

Wakened by the voice of morn,
See, the little urchin Mirth,
How she, laughing Care to scorn,
Skippeth o'er the jocund earth;
Don, O, don thy best attire,
Snatch, O, snatch this balm to pain,
Ere the beams of day retire,
And thy night sets in again.