« PreviousContinue »
requiescat humus, requiescat arator, Et grave, suspenso vomere, cesset opus.
How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
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, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; 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 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,