 | The poetical works of Henry Alford |  |
I.
This tranquil Sabbath morn hath hushed the earthInto unwonted calm. The clear pale hills
Lie beneath level lines of sunny clouds,
Walling our prospect round. A hundred fields
Rest from their six days' tillage;—save where kine
Peaceful their herbage crop, or ruminate
Recumbent. Every vernal garden flower,
Crocus gold-bright, or varnished celandine,
Or violet, sapphire-eyed or bridal white,
Opens its bosom to the ascending sun.
One only looks not up, but ever droops,
Droops, but with matchless grace, and not to earth,
But, with firm stalk, its head alone depends,—
The snowdrop, lovelier than them all. Ev'n thus
Bow down, my spirit, with thy load of grief,
Bow down,—but be not crushed:—be yet thy stem
Upright and firm, on God's good purpose stayed.
But I no more can look into the heaven
As do yon gayer blooms: touched by God's hand,
“Mara my name, but Naomi no more:”—
For one lithe form I miss this Sabbath morn,
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Tripped o'er these walks, feeding on sight and sound,
Holding half-closed the holy book in hand,
And mingling with the loved and half-learned lore
Of parable, or sweet recital, gleams
Of nature's various life. O memory sweet!
O inexhausted fount of tearful joy!
| The poetical works of Henry Alford | |