| |
| BIND us the Morning, mother of the stars | |
| And of the winds that usher in the day! | |
| Ere her light fingers slide the eastern bars, | |
| A netted snare before her footsteps lay; | |
| Ere the pale roses of the mist be strown, | 5 |
| Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! | |
| |
| With her have passed all things we held most dear, | |
| Most subtly guarded from her amorous stealth; | |
| We nothing gathered, toiling year by year, | |
| But she hath claimed it for increase of wealth; | 10 |
| Our gems make bright her crown, incrust her throne: | |
| Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! | |
| |
| Where are they gone, who round our myrtles played, | |
| Or bent the vines’ rich fruitage to our hands, | |
| Or breathed deep song from out the laurels’ shade? | 15 |
| She drew them to her,—who can slack the bands? | |
| What lure she used, what toils, was never known: | |
| Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! | |
| |
| Enough that for her sake Orion died, | |
| Slain by the silver Archer of the sky,— | 20 |
| That Ilion’s prince amid her splendors wide | |
| Lies chained by age, nor wins his prayer to die; | |
| Enough! but hark! Our captive loves make moan: | |
| Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! | |
| |
| We have beheld them whom we lost of old, | 25 |
| Among her choiring Hours, in sorrow bowed. | |
| A moment gleam their faces, faint and cold, | |
| Through some high oriel window wreathed with cloud, | |
| Or on the wind before her they are blown: | |
| Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! | 30 |
| |
| They do her service at the noiseless looms | |
| That weave the misty vesture of the hills; | |
| Their tears are drink to thirsting grass and blooms, | |
| Their breath the darkling wood-bird wakes and thrills; | |
| Us too they seek, but far adrift are thrown: | 35 |
| Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! | |
| |
| Yea, cry her Thief! from where the light doth break | |
| To where it merges in the western deep! | |
| If aught of ours she, startled, should for sake, | |
| Such waifs the waiting Night for us will keep. | 40 |
| But stay not; still pursue her, falsely flown: | |
| Bind us the Morning, and restore our own! | |
| |
