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A word and a grimace, but reverently,
Hail, SABBATH! thee I hail, the poor man's day: 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, 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.
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-paved 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 pleased: These, mingled with the young, 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,
The holy man sprinkles with forth-stretched hand
gay attire, wend to the house of mirth, The poor man's festival, a jubilee day, Remembered long
Nor would I leave
punsung The lofty ritual of our sister land: In vestment white, the minister of God 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 they brought young children to him, that he should touch them; and his disciples rebuked those that brought them. But when Jesus saw it he was much displeased, and said unto them, suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of God. Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein. And he took them up in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them." -MARK, X. 13, 14, 15, 16.
And voice of psalms; harmoniously attuned
It is not only in the sacred fane
spray ; When not a floweret bends its little stalk, Save where the bee alights upon the bloom; There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love, The man of God will pass the Sabbath-noon; Silence his praise: his disembodied thoughts, Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend Beyond the empyrean.Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne, The Sabbath-service of the shepherd-boy. In some lone glen, where every sound is lulled To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill, Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry, Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son; Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold, And wonders why he weeps; the volume closed, With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves, he sings The sacred lays, his weekly lesson, conned With meikle care beneath the lowly roof,