Classic Poem

Sweetest and fairest of the days that dawn
Upon Elysian hill, and over lawn,
And field, and city spread a roseate light!
The morning of the Sabbath day--in dight
Of many a hallowed strain it comes. The bell
Of every village o'er the plain doth tell,
From its high seat, within the sacred tower
Above the house of God, from hour to hour,
A joyous song; and in cathedral town
The gladsome peals break forth and warble down;
While through the city every belfrey gives
A glad reply, which seems to say, "He lives!
He lives!" The song of praise is heard ascend,
Raised to the heavenly throne, in one to blend
With angels' song, from many a cottage rung,
Where on this day the father with his young
Sits down in peace; while, in the pine grove down
The rural glen, a myriad voices crown
The clear-tuned solo of the warbling thrush,
Or oft in chorus to a duet flush,
Sung with the full-piped blackbird of the wood,
Their notes are joined. The aspect and the mood
Of everything is changed, as wont on day
Of toil the crowded city moves to lay
The bands of slumber for a time away,
But brings not out the bustle and the din
Which is her weekday aspect; and within
Her walls a stilly peace prevails; the roar
And noise of lumbering waggon comes no more
Along the well-worn street, nor busy tread
Of envoy, hurrying on, by duty led,
To bank, or warehouse, or to court of law.
The myriad sounds have ceased, which nature saw
Were fit to wait upon the day of toil;
Nor mendicant nor ballad beggar foil
The sacred rest with their assiduous song.
And round the factory door the noisy throng
Forgets to come as on the other days;
Aside her task the weary seamstress lays,
Now from the close and foul-aired workroom free.
The toilsome shop is closed, and also he
Who for the week stood there doth taste the sweets
Of liberty awhile; the penman meets
No more the tiring scroll; and now in chain
The prisoner sits within his dungeon, wan
And weary; but he hears some soothing strain
Break through the thick and iron-girded wall;
And then the heavy shackles seem to fall
From off his feet; a strange emotion fills
His soul, and through his wasted body thrills,
When of the bygone days he thinks in sweet
And lingering thought; and then his eyes to meet
The scanty rays are turned, and on his mind
Awhile the captive fate forgets to find
Its deepest force or weary sigh to send.
Turn from the city, and to country lend
A passing thought. All labor is at rest.
The plough lies set, point in the mottled breast
Of half-tilled field; the flail is laid above
The barn's brown wall; the shining sickles move
Not from their keep; the woodman's axe is still;
The golden sheaf doth not the feeder fill;
The huntsman's horn is hung behind the door;
The delver's spade stands idle on the floor;
The horse and oxen run the open field,
Set free to graze; the holloaing drivers wield
No whip or goad, and all the swain is free;
The laborer walks abroad, and turns to see,
With favoring look, the toilings of his hand,
And fruits of labor rising from the land;
The rustic lovers saunter in the fields,
To talk of love and reap the joy it yields.
The tower-clock now the worship-hour relates,
And every church the worshipper awaits.
Then thither come the cottar and his wife,
(Once fair, now furrowed with the cares of life,)
With sons and daughters; and, behind them near,
The jovial farmer and his wife appear.
Then comes the county squire; till the seats,
One after one, are full. Then shortly meets
The people's eager eye the tranquil face
Of their beloved pastor, in his place.
He kneels to God, and in deep fervour prays
A sweet and powerful prayer; then he lays
The open Bible down, and well expounds
The message of the Saviour's love, till bounds,
For truths so hallowed, every tending heart
In joy. Then praise is sung; a ready part
Takes every voice to raise a worthy song,
Which breaks from seat to seat the aisle along.
Then kneel the people by the throne of grace
To take the blessing, ere they part to pace
Again the world's besetting path. It falls
Among them like as dew upon the palls
Of parched flowers, to raise and nourish in
The hour of need the vital spark within.

* * * * *

Sweetest and fairest, hallowed day of rest!
"Peace" is thy banner and thy mottoed crest--
An open boon to all. The weary wait--
The weary wait and sigh to see the gate
Of dawn admit thee forth in eastern sky.
The merchant's daughter, as each morn goes by,
Looks on the scenes without, and counts the days
That fly--six, five, four, three, two, one--and lays
A hopeful joy upon the day to come,
When she shall by her father sit, and some
Inspiring volume read, or, in a walk
Through wood or vale, employ the time in talk,
Sweet and instructively. The widow waits
To see her son come home, and anxious gets
When near the hour has drawn that she shall hear
The step of her sole comforter draw near,
With whom on earth she findeth sweetest joy.
The orphans wait, and every night employ
A time in prayer, that God be pleased to spare
Their elder brother, and bestow him fair
And happy days. They long the Sabbath day;
For then he comes among them, and doth lay
A cheerful spirit to the humble home;
Pure and delicious truths he tells them from
A flowing heart, and they all love him well.
All people love the Sabbath--they who dwell
In early years of innocence and joy,
And they of lusty prime, whom cares employ
A thousand snares to tangle or to stem.
But more than all, the Sabbath is to them
A day of sweet delight who totter near
The precincts of the grave without a fear--
Yea, rather, with a joyous hope ere long
To leave the weary ranks they now belong,
Of feeble age, and, passing death's dark throng,
Attain the kingdom of eternal song.