Classic Poem

At morn and eve, in sun and rain,
Let whatsoe'er befall,
The postman trudges on his round
With messages to all.
And not a matron, man, or maid,
By river or by rock,
But loves to see the postman's face,
And hear the postman's knock.

With song and whistle, on he goes,
Pleased with his glad employ;
Sometimes he carries sorrow-shafts,
But oftener brings us joy.
Through streets and squares his bag he bears,
Or where the daisies smile,
And cuckoo carols lustily
Beside the old field-stile.

The mother waiting for her boy,
The sick one on his bed,
Grandam and damsel, all rejoice
To hear the postman's tread,
Each day alike, still round and round,
At duty's earnest call,
Where labour strives, or ringing loud
Outside the rich man's hall.

And now he craves a precious boon,
Which England won't deny, —
The Sabbath hours, the Sabbath rest,
Received from Him on high.
Each week he hears, sometimes in tears,
The church-bells call to pray.
O! yield the postman God's great gift,
The holy Sabbath day.