Select poems / by L.H. Sigourney [electronic resource]

SABBATH MORNING.

How beautiful the Sunday morn, amid The quietude of nature. Spreading trees: And the simplicity of rural life Best harmonize with its divine intent; And more than pompous cities, or the throngs That flow unceasing thro' their crowded streets, Welcome its silent spirit. Here, and there, A rustic household, toward the village church Wind through green lanes, where still the dewy grass Reserves its diamonds for them. Happy sire, And peaceful grandsire, with his hoary hair, And joyous children, their fresh, ruddy brows Compos'd to serious thought, and even the babe In its young innocence, a wondering guest, Wend forth, in blessed company, to pay Their vows to Him, who heeds the pure in heart.

Heaven whispereth earth. And lo! an answering sigh Speeds from the winds, as they unfold their wings Impalpable, and touch the dimpling streams,

And wave the plants, while from the leafy groves Steals deeper melody. Methinks, the sea Murmureth in tone subdued, as if its waves Paus'd in their tyrant play, or cowering heard That warning voice, which to the banish'd man In rocky Patmos, taught unuttered things, And in the spirit-trance of scenes sublime, Bore all of self away. Hail, hallow'd morn! That binds a yoke on Vice. Drooping her head, She by such quaint hypocrisy, doth show How excellent is Virtue. Eve may light Her orgies up again, but at this hour, She trembleth, and is still. Humility From the cleft rock where she hath hid, doth mark The girded majesty of God pass by, And kneeling, wins a blessing. Grief foregoes Her bitterness, and round the tear-wet urn Twines simple flowers, still musing on His words Who on this day despoil'd the conquering grave, "Thy dead shall rise again."But best, firm Faith Enjoys the Sabbath. She doth lift her brow And talk with angels, till the listening soul That by the thraldom of the week was bow'd To weariness, doth like the enfranchis'd slave Leap up, to put its glorious garments on.