 | The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery |  |
SABBATH MORN.
And see! from out the radiant east, which blooms
As if with blossoms of carnation'd light,
The rose of Morning blushes into hues
Of purpling splendour, till the arch of heaven
Serenely mantled with one glow immense
Of opal lustre, tells that Day is born,
And that, a sabbath: sacred be the morn!
To all who welcome with accorded rites
Its high mementoes and its claims august.
And oh, how numb'd by earth's torpedo-sway
Their souls who will not, in the saintly prime
Of this rapt morning, feel how God hath framed
The world without intelligibly true
By living concord to the world within.
Now, matter seems a paraphrase on mind:
We pour our spirit into sounds and scenes,
Greeting creation, like an echo'd Self
In forms repeated, for poetic eyes,
Or hearts of high-strain'd purity, to hail.
As if with blossoms of carnation'd light,
The rose of Morning blushes into hues
Of purpling splendour, till the arch of heaven
Serenely mantled with one glow immense
Of opal lustre, tells that Day is born,
And that, a sabbath: sacred be the morn!
To all who welcome with accorded rites
Its high mementoes and its claims august.
And oh, how numb'd by earth's torpedo-sway
Their souls who will not, in the saintly prime
Of this rapt morning, feel how God hath framed
The world without intelligibly true
By living concord to the world within.
Now, matter seems a paraphrase on mind:
We pour our spirit into sounds and scenes,
Greeting creation, like an echo'd Self
In forms repeated, for poetic eyes,
Or hearts of high-strain'd purity, to hail.
And now, from secret depths of faith within
Rise thoughts, which in their trepid beauty hang
Faintly and freshly on the virgin soul,
By words unechoed. Sacramental hour,
Hail to thy glories! from the Lord they come,
And all they image but His name reflect:
The very sunbeams their own sabbath keep,
So hush'd and holy is the bright-hair'd Morn,
While balm and beauty through creation's breast
Are now prevailing! Nature's holy type
To sabbath-keeping hearts it thus presents,
Who early at the grave of Jesu watch
Like Mary, to behold their rising Lord.
We call it fancy, but it rules like fact
O'er yielded spirits with seductive power,—
Nature herself sabbatical becomes
And greets that Day, which to the other six
Imparts a pure and consecrating spell.
Rise thoughts, which in their trepid beauty hang
Faintly and freshly on the virgin soul,
By words unechoed. Sacramental hour,
Hail to thy glories! from the Lord they come,
And all they image but His name reflect:
The very sunbeams their own sabbath keep,
So hush'd and holy is the bright-hair'd Morn,
While balm and beauty through creation's breast
Are now prevailing! Nature's holy type
To sabbath-keeping hearts it thus presents,
Who early at the grave of Jesu watch
Like Mary, to behold their rising Lord.
We call it fancy, but it rules like fact
O'er yielded spirits with seductive power,—
Nature herself sabbatical becomes
And greets that Day, which to the other six
Imparts a pure and consecrating spell.
But, mark the heavens! whose inspirations melt
Through the deep eye which loves to drink their hues
Like draughts of glory, till our flooded gaze
O'erflows with radiance, and grows dim with light.
The larks sing matins; while the humbler birds
Send hallelujahs to the King of morn,
Tiny and broken, but replete with praise;
Who now, uprising from a throne of clouds,
Bares his red forehead to the greeting World.
The viewless finger of the fairy wind
Wanders about, and with a dimpling touch
Ripples a stream; or tunes the air to song,
Till like an anthem by the breezes hymn'd
Fancy admires it: but for this,—all earth
Seems cover'd o'er with meditation's calm,
Solemn as in some hoary minster dwells;
And if the trees emotional were not
By air-breaths flutter'd; or the lisping talk
Of flowers, wind-ruffled; or the mellow tones
Of gliding waters in their graceful flow
Broke the blest calm,—'twere all a perfect trance
In sweetest emblem of this hallow'd morn.
Through the deep eye which loves to drink their hues
Like draughts of glory, till our flooded gaze
O'erflows with radiance, and grows dim with light.
The larks sing matins; while the humbler birds
Send hallelujahs to the King of morn,
Tiny and broken, but replete with praise;
Who now, uprising from a throne of clouds,
Bares his red forehead to the greeting World.
The viewless finger of the fairy wind
Wanders about, and with a dimpling touch
Ripples a stream; or tunes the air to song,
Till like an anthem by the breezes hymn'd
Fancy admires it: but for this,—all earth
Seems cover'd o'er with meditation's calm,
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And if the trees emotional were not
By air-breaths flutter'd; or the lisping talk
Of flowers, wind-ruffled; or the mellow tones
Of gliding waters in their graceful flow
Broke the blest calm,—'twere all a perfect trance
In sweetest emblem of this hallow'd morn.
But if from rustic solitude we look
To where, through parted hills old Ocean heaves
His breast of waters in the mantling sun,
Thou hast no sabbath, ever-rolling Sea!
Restless with glory: yet methinks, thy waves
Throb like the pulses of a heart enrapt,
When high emotions quiver into praise.
To where, through parted hills old Ocean heaves
His breast of waters in the mantling sun,
Thou hast no sabbath, ever-rolling Sea!
Restless with glory: yet methinks, thy waves
Throb like the pulses of a heart enrapt,
When high emotions quiver into praise.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery | |