A Sabbath Morning In The Country.
By Thomas Frederick Young
'Tis morning, and the meadows yet,
Are wet with gracious drops of dew.
Each blade of grass, and flow'r, is set
With sparkling gems of richest hue.
The sun, with rising glory, sheds
A radiance, that none divine,
Save those, who early leave their beds,
When glist'ning dew-drops briefly shine.
Just ere the rising sunbeams play,
From glorious orb, of rosy red,
There is no sound of life, no hum,
And but, seemingly, all things are dead.
But when the blessed, welcome beams,
Light up, and cheer, and warm the earth,
All things awaken from their dreams,
To celebrate Creation's birth.
The very fields are filled with life,
With hum of bee, and insect throng;
The woods are vocal, with the strife
Of friendly rivalry, in song.
But 'tis the Sabbath morn, and now
Are heard no sounds of industry,
Save milk-maid, calling to her cow,
Or buzzing of the toilsome bee.
Or save, perhaps, the gentle neigh
Of horses, answering the call,
For mother, father, child to-day
Must hear the holy words, that fall
From lips, that pray with them, and preach
To them, the old, old words of cheer.
They must receive the sounds, that teach
Those solemn truths, they love to hear.
But now, the sun's increasing heat
Hath dried the dew, and warm'd the air;
The feather'd songsters now retreat,
Fann'd by the sun's relentless glare.
The morning service now is o'er,
The pastor, kindly greeted too,
And, after greetings at the door,
They all their homeward way pursue.