A Summer Sunrise

AFTER LEE O. HARRIS The master-hand whose pencils trace This wondrous landscape of the morn, Is but the sun, whose glowing face Reflects the rapture and the grace Of inspiration Heaven-born. And yet with vision-dazzled eyes, I see the lotus-lands of old, Where odorous breezes fall and rise, And mountains, peering in the skies, Stand ankle-deep in lakes of gold. And, spangled with the shine and shade, I see the rivers raveled out In strands of silver, slowly fade In threads of light along the glade Where truant roses hide and pout. The tamarind on gleaming sands Droops drowsily beneath the heat; And bowed as though aweary, stands The stately palm, with lazy hands That fold their shadows round his feet. And mistily, as through a veil, I catch the glances of a sea Of sapphire, dimpled with a gale Toward Colch's blowing, where the sail Of Jason's Argo beckons me. And gazing on and farther yet, I see the isles enchanted, bright With fretted spire and parapet, And gilded mosque and minaret, That glitter in the crimson light. But as I gaze, the city's walls Are keenly smitten with a gleam Of pallid splendor, that appalls The fancy as the ruin falls In ashen embers of a dream. Yet over all the waking earth The tears of night are brushed away, And eyes are lit with love and mirth, And benisons of richest worth Go up to bless the new-born day.