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How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
. Calmness seems thron’d on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
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 doom'd To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground Both seat and board, screen'd from the winter's
cold, And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or
But on this day, embosom'd in his home,
Hail, SABBATH! thee I hail, the poor man's day: The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe (4) The morning-air pure from the city's smoke, While wand'ring slowly up the river-side, He meditates on Him whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around the roots; and while he thus surveys With elevated joy each rural charm, He hopes, (yet fears presumption in the hope,) To reach those realms where SABBATH never ends.
But now his steps a welcome sound recals : Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile, Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe: Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-pav'd
ground: The aged man, the bowed down, the blind
Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well
pleas’d; These, mingled with the
gay, approach The house of God: these, spite of all their ills, A glow of gladness feel ; with silent praise They enter in; a placid stillness reigns, Until the man of God, worthy the name, Opens the book, and reverentially The stated portion reads. A pause ensues. The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes, Then swells into a diapason full : The people rising, sing, “With harp, with harp, And voice of psalms ;" harmoniously attun'd The various voices blend ; the long-drawn aisles, At every close, the ling’ring strain prolong. And now the tubes a soften'd stop controuls,