From The National Journal.

TO THE MoRNIMG GLORY.
{"newspaper_name": "American watchman and Delaware advertiser.", "edition": "01", "page": "p1", "byline": ""}
Flower, that meath the morn doth smile,
In thy robe Of purple hue,
Living but a little while,
Drinking many drop of dew;
On thy spreading leaves gaze,
zee thee ope and see thee close,
Till the Suns bright, burning, rays
All thy beauty doth oppose.
Nightly breezes on thee falling,
Cheer thee up and bid thee bloom
Lake the Nymphs of Morn, they're calling
Sleeping Flowers from the tomb
Waking then, thy leaves are spreading,
Tho divided, yet in one,
Fearing nothng-notbing dreading
But the burning, parching, Sun.
Pretty Flower. like Man thou'rt dying
Man, ,hou'u fading like this Flower;
Youths hy morn, the time of trying
Whether thou hast strength or power;
Ere The eve Of age doth greet thee,
OFT IN nogn thine ewes are closing:
When the tears of sorrow meet thee.
Thou art found in night reposing.


WASHINGTON BARD