Classic Poem

A SAPPHIC

Sweet is the morning when the Sabbath-day dawns,
And earth and sky spread lovelier before me;
When not a breath stirs, in its whispering motion,
Garden or forest,
Which does not seem to partake in the holy
Peace of the pure hearts, where passion slumbers,
Care is composed, and the thoughts all awaken
Bright with devotion.
Sweeter the lark sings on that sunny morning,
Livelier the wren chirps round the shingled cottage,
Deeper the robin swells his throat, and pours forth
Hymns to his Maker.
Sweetly the bell sounds far in the distance,
Rising and falling with the winds, and rolling
Over hill and mountain, like the tones that summon
Pure souls to heaven.
Sweet comes the music of the rustic voices,
When in the oak grove, or the low-browed temple,
Hymning and praising Him whose name is H OLY ,
Hearts glow with rapture.
Sweet is the clear tone, where the breath of incense,
Longings of clean hearts, prayers by pure lips spoken,
Swell on the light winds, through the arching branches;
Sweet as when organs,
In the dark choir of the lofty-vaulted minster,
Pour forth the deep stream of harmony, and roll round
Pillar and altar, fretted roof and tall arch,
Sounds like the echoes
Which, in the still night, after storms have beaten
Wild on the roof-tree, round the distant mountains,
Mellow, but majestic, send on the soothed ear
Calmness and slumber.
Sweet is the Sabbath, to the heart who loves it,
As the day when heaven's gates opened on this dark world,
When the K ING OF G LORY , mounted on a bright cloud,
Conquering ascended.