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From “The Sabbath”
HOW still the morning of the hallowed day! | |
| Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed | |
| The ploughboy’s whistle and the milkmaid’s song. | |
| The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath | |
| Of tedded grass, mingled with faded flowers, | 5 |
| That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze; | |
| Sounds the most faint attract the ear,—the hum | |
| Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, | |
| The distant bleating, midway up the hill. | |
| Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. | 10 |
| To him who wanders o’er the upland leas | |
| The blackbird’s note comes mellower from the dale; | |
| And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark | |
| Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook | |
| Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen; | 15 |
| While from yon lowly roof, whose circling smoke | |
| O’ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals | |
| The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. | |
| With dovelike wings Peace o’er yon village broods; | |
| The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil’s din | 20 |
| Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness. | |
| Less fearful on this day, the limping hare | |
| Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, | |
| Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, | |
| Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; | 25 |
| And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls, | |
| His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. | |
| But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. | |
| Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man’s day. | |
| On other days the man of toil is doomed | 30 |
| To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground | |
| Both seat and board; screened from the winter’s cold | |
| And summer’s heat by neighboring hedge or tree; | |
| But on this day, imbosomed in his home, | |
| He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; | 35 |
| With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy | |
| Of giving thanks to God—not thanks of form, | |
| A word and a grimace, but reverently, | |
| With covered face and upward earnest eye. | |
| Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man’s day. | 40 |
| The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe | |
| The morning air, pure from the city’s smoke; | |
| While, wandering slowly up the river-side, | |
| He meditates on Him, whose power he marks | |
| In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough | 45 |
| As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom | |
| Around its roots; and while he thus surveys, | |
| With elevated joy, each rural charm, | |
| He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope, | |
| That heaven may be one Sabbath without end. | 50 |
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