"While day arises, that sweet hour of prime."
by Mrs. Hemans [Felicia Hemans].
Originally published in The Casket, or Flowers of Literature, Wit and Sentiment (Atkinson & Alexander) vol.3 #2 (Feb 1828).
How many thousands are waking now!
Some to the songs from the forest bough
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice-pane,
To the chiming fall of the early rain.
And some far out on the deep mild-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.
And some— oh! well may their hearts rejoice—
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice;
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone.
And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,
Which tells that a field must e'er night be won.
And some in the gloomy convict-cell,
To the dull deep note of the warning bell,
As it heavily calls them forth to die,
While the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.
And some to the peal of the hunter's horn;
And some to the sounds from the city borne;
And some to the rolling of torrent floods,
Far 'midst old mountains, and solemn woods.
So are we roused on this chequer'd earth,
Each unto light hath a daily birth,
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Be the voices which first our upspringing meet.
But ONE must the sound be, and ONE the call,
Which from the dust shall awake us all!
ONE, though to sever'd and distant dooms—
How shall the sleepers arise from their tombs.