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How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
Calmness seems thron'd on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heav'n-tun'd song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
WITH dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods:
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
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, (2)
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
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,
With cover'd face and upward earnest eye.
HAIL, SABBATH! thee I hail, the poor man's day:
He hopes, (yet fears presumption in the hope,)
BUT now his steps a welcome sound recals :
Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile,
Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-pav'd
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, wellpleas'd;
These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach
Until the man of God, worthy the name,
The stated portion reads. A pause ensues.
The people rising, sing, "With harp, with harp,