THE SABBATH: A POEM. Luce sacra requiescat humus, requiescat arator, Et grave, suspenso vomere, cesset opus. THE SABBATH. How still the morning of the hallowed day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals, The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village broods: The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din 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, And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls, 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 To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground Both seat and board; screened from the winter's cold, And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heart-felt joy Of giving thanks to God,-not thanks of form, |