The Mysteries of Udolpho
Let those deplore their doom,
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.
But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?
Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?--
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!
Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little refreshed by sleep, for
uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the kindest blessing of the unhappy. But,
when she opened her casement, looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun,
and inspired the pure air, her mind was soothed. The scene was filled with that cheering
freshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health, and she heard only sweet and
PICTURESQUE sounds, if such an expression may be allowed--the matin-bell of a
distant convent, the faint murmur of the sea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low
of cattle, which she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees. Struck with the
circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the pensive tranquillity which they
inspired; and while she leaned on her window, waiting till St. Aubert should descend to
breakfast, her ideas arranged themselves in the following lines:
THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING
How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade,
When early twilight, from the eastern bound,
Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,
And fades as morning spreads her blush around!
When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night,
Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,
Expands its tender blossom to the light,
And gives its incense to the genial air.
How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,
And swells the melody of waking birds;
The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,
And woodman's song, and low of distant herds!