[Poems by Shillaber in] The poets of New Hampshire being specimen poems of three hundred poets of the Granite State, with biographical notes |
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A COUNTRY SUMMER SUNDAY. |
 | [Poems by Shillaber in] The poets of New Hampshire |  |
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A COUNTRY SUMMER SUNDAY.
Sweet season of repose! thy influence blest
Pervades creation with a calm delight;
All nature claims the bounty of thy rest,
And care that held dominion takes its flight.
Pervades creation with a calm delight;
All nature claims the bounty of thy rest,
And care that held dominion takes its flight.
No sounds discordant lacerate the ear—
In tranquil beauty lies the landscape wide;—
“To Praise! To Praise!” our inmost spirits hear,
As if an angel spake, from every side.
In tranquil beauty lies the landscape wide;—
“To Praise! To Praise!” our inmost spirits hear,
As if an angel spake, from every side.
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The sun, abroad, o'er meadow, wood and stream,
A brighter, holier radiance seems to fling;
The birds inspired with sweeter music seem,
And breathless breezes wait to hear them sing.
A brighter, holier radiance seems to fling;
The birds inspired with sweeter music seem,
And breathless breezes wait to hear them sing.
Anon, awakening with a murmuring note,
The soft winds harp on instrumental trees,
While perfumes from a myriad blossoms float,
Borne on the pinions of the joyous breeze.
The soft winds harp on instrumental trees,
While perfumes from a myriad blossoms float,
Borne on the pinions of the joyous breeze.
The cattle in the field, released from stall,
Graze gratefully upon the grasses cool,
Where the refreshing shadows darkly fall,
Or stand as studying in some pleasant pool.
Graze gratefully upon the grasses cool,
Where the refreshing shadows darkly fall,
Or stand as studying in some pleasant pool.
The rustling corn in tasseled pride outflings
Its banners in the gleaming sun to dance,
And every spire in golden triumph swings
In plenitude of rich luxuriance.
Its banners in the gleaming sun to dance,
And every spire in golden triumph swings
In plenitude of rich luxuriance.
The farmer listless leans upon the wall,
And looks with calm contentment o'er his fields,
While glad emotions all his heart enthral,
And thankfulness that here its tribute yields.
And looks with calm contentment o'er his fields,
While glad emotions all his heart enthral,
And thankfulness that here its tribute yields.
But hark! amid the charms that rest around,
Comes to our ears the warning sabbath-bell;
The listening hills return the sacred sound,
Which wakens echoes in the vales that dwell.
Comes to our ears the warning sabbath-bell;
The listening hills return the sacred sound,
Which wakens echoes in the vales that dwell.
And now, sedately from each cottage home,
The village fathers, sabbathly arrayed,
And village mothers, dignifiedly come,
And village maidens with their “best” displayed;
The village fathers, sabbathly arrayed,
And village mothers, dignifiedly come,
And village maidens with their “best” displayed;
The dusty chaise rolls down the dusty hill,
A relic saved from generations past,
A pride of station clinging to it still,
And deferential looks are on it cast!
A relic saved from generations past,
A pride of station clinging to it still,
And deferential looks are on it cast!
And loving pairs lag loiteringly along
Beneath the shadows of the elm trees, tall,
And themes are there for story or for song
Poured out 'neath many a faded parasol.
Beneath the shadows of the elm trees, tall,
And themes are there for story or for song
Poured out 'neath many a faded parasol.
All take the path to where, each holy day,
The reverend pastor doth his accents raise,
And strives to draw his hearers' minds away,
By urgings gentle, to a godly praise;
The reverend pastor doth his accents raise,
And strives to draw his hearers' minds away,
By urgings gentle, to a godly praise;
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To where the anthem unassisted springs,
And melody appalled turns pale to hear,
Gathering for flight her silver-plumaged wings,
To seek elsewhere some more harmonious sphere!
And melody appalled turns pale to hear,
Gathering for flight her silver-plumaged wings,
To seek elsewhere some more harmonious sphere!
Yet much of soul dwells in the simple song,
Where fervor takes the place of studied art,
As on the air it pours itself along,
Freighted with feeling of the fervent heart.
Where fervor takes the place of studied art,
As on the air it pours itself along,
Freighted with feeling of the fervent heart.
Methinks that God looks more benignly down
Upon the day His lovingness hath lent,
When, amid scenes like this its hours we crown
By offerings with joy and homage blent.
Upon the day His lovingness hath lent,
When, amid scenes like this its hours we crown
By offerings with joy and homage blent.
Ascetic gloom should find no biding place
To cloud the current of our bosom's rest;
The sabbath sun with joy should gild the face,
As in the heart its presence is confest.
To cloud the current of our bosom's rest;
The sabbath sun with joy should gild the face,
As in the heart its presence is confest.
| [Poems by Shillaber in] The poets of New Hampshire | |