University of Virginia Library

V. A SUNDAY.

Our six days' toil is over:
This is the day of rest;
The bee hums in the clover,
The lark springs from her nest.
The old thatch, grey and mossy,
With golden stonecrop gleams;
The pigeon, sleek and glossy,
Basks in the morning beams.
All living things are cheery
Upon this Sabbath morn;
The blackbird cannot weary
Of singing on the thorn;
The sheep within the meadow
Like driven snow they look;
The cows stand in the shadow,
Within the willowy brook.
'Tis like that famous picture
Which came from London down:
You must go and see that picture
When next you're in the town.
And then there's that engraving
I told you of last spring:
—I've been these six months saving,
To buy that lovely thing.
Well, both of them resemble
This view at early day,
When diamond dew-drops tremble
Upon the dog-rose spray:
In both there is the river,
The church-spire, and the mill;
The aspens seem to shiver;
The cloud floats o'er the hill.
As soon as breakfast's over
We'll forth this merry morn,
Among the fragrant clover,
And through the summer corn:
In the great church of Nature,
Where God himself is priest,
We'll join each joyful creature,
Flower, insect, bird, and beast.
The birds praise God in singing
Among the leafy sprays,
And a loving heart is worship,
A joyful soul is praise.
Dear wife, this day of seven,
God's gift to toil, shall be
A little bit of heaven
On earth for thee and me.
'Tis I the babe will carry,
My youngest, darling boy;
And Bess and little Harry,
They will be wild with joy:
For them the wild rose mingles
With woodbine on the bough,
And birds in leafy dingles
Shout welcomes to them now.
Sweet wife, make haste: down yonder,
Down by the miller's farm,
Through old field-paths we'll wander,
Thy hand within my arm.
For Sunday leisure heeding,
The books I've brought are these,
The very books for reading
Beneath the summer trees.
They're by that brave young poet
Who wrote of Locksley Hall;
That charming verse—you know it—
You saw it first of all.
And 'neath the lime trees shady,
Among the summer corn,
I'll read of Burleigh's lady,
A village maiden born.
Haste, haste, and get thee ready,
The morn is wearing on;
The woodland lawns are shady;
The dew dries; let's be gone!