DEAKIN, ESQ.

_Author of "Portraits of the Dead."_

Morn rose upon the purple hills,
In all his pomp display'd;
Flash'd forth like stars a hundred rills,
In valley, plain, and glade.
The foaming mist, day's chilly shrine,
Into the clouds upcurl'd,
Forth broke in majesty divine
The Grampians' giant world.

It was a glorious sight to view
Those mountain forms unfold,--
The Heavens above intensely blue,
The plains beneath like gold.
Day woke, a thousand songs arose,
Morn's orisons on high,
Earth's universal heart o'erflows
To Him beyond the sky.

The shepherd roused him from his sleep,
And down the vale be hied,
Like guardian good, to count his sheep,
His _firstling_ by his side.
His firstling! 'twas his only child--
A boy of three years old,
The father's weary hours beguiled
Whilst watching o'er his fold.

And many an hour the child and he
Joy'd o'er the vale together;
It was a lovely thing to see
That child among the heather.
The vale is pass'd, the mountains rear
Their rugged cliffs in air,
He must ascend to view more near
His distant fleecy care.

"My child! the flowers are bright for thee,
The daisy's pearl'd with dew;
Go, share them with the honey-bee,
Till I return for you,
Thy dog and mine with thee shall stay
Whilst I the flock am counting,"--
He said, and took his tedious way,
The hilly green sward mounting.

O'er crag and cliff the father toil'd,
Unconscious pass'd the hours:
He for a time forgot the child
He'd left among the flowers.
The boiling clouds come down and veil
Valley, and wood, and plain;
Then fears the father's heart assail,
He will descend again.

Morn melted into noon, and night
Dark on the shepherd shone,
Terror in vain impels his flight,
His child!--his child is gone!
He calls upon his darling's name,
His dog in vain he calls;
He hears naught but the eagle's scream,
Or roar of waterfalls.

He rushes home--he is not there--
With agony and woe;
He hunts him in the cold night air,
O'er hill and vale below.
Morn rose--the faithful dog appears,
He whines for food so mild,
The father hied him through his tears,
And said, "Tray, where's my child?"

Thrice rose the morn--the father's heart
With grief was almost dead;
But every morn the dog appeared,
And whine