Rural Morning

Soon as the twilight through the distant mist In silver hemmings skirts the purple east, Ere yet the sun unveils his smiles to view And dries the morning's chilly robes of dew, Young Hodge the horse-boy, with a soodly gait, Slow climbs the stile, or opes the creaky gate, With willow switch and halter by his side Prepared for Dobbin, whom he means to ride; The only tune he knows still whistling oer, And humming scraps his father sung before, As "Wantley Dragon," and the "Magic Rose," The whole of music that his village knows, Which wild remembrance, in each little town, From mouth to mouth through ages handles down.…