University of Virginia Library

SABBATH MORNING.

There is a quiet beauty on the sky,
A balmy freshness in the tranquil air,
That fills my mind with holiest thoughts, my heart
With gentlest feelings; e'en the glorious sun
With softer splendor seems to usher in
The peaceful Sabbath. Well may it be called
A day of rest, when it thus sweetly stills
Not merely the wide city's busy hum,
But the fierce warfare of the human heart.
O, how could passion wake in this calm hour?
E'en my proud soul is humbled, and I lift
Mine eye to Heaven, not now in wild reproof,
Murmuring at its decrees, but with the deep
And calm submission of a wounded spirit,
Praying for strength to suffer. Well I know
My lot is sorrow; pain, and sickness, aye,
The sickness of the heart, and early death,
These fill the measure of my destiny.
And O, how often do my feelings rise
In vain rebellion, when with weary limb
I press the couch of sickness! or when pain,
The worst of pain, wrings my lone heart, how oft
Does my worn spirit pray that soon may come
The rest too long delayed! but when I feel
The fragrant breath of heaven, e'en though as now
It fans a feverish brow, or stirs across
A cheek that tears have faded, it awakes
My slumbering energies. The Power that stills
The raging of the swelling seas, can stay
The wild tempestuous waves of earthly feeling,
And teach me calm endurance.