The Poor Man’s Day

From “The Sabbath” HOW still the morning of the hallowed day! Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed The ploughboy’s whistle and the milkmaid’s song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with faded flowers, That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze; Sounds the most faint attract the ear,—the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating, midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o’er the upland leas The blackbird’s note comes mellower from the dale; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose circling smoke O’ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. With dovelike wings Peace o’er yon village broods; The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil’s din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man’s day. On other days the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground Both seat and board; screened from the winter’s cold And summer’s heat by neighboring hedge or tree; But on this day, imbosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God—not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently, With covered face and upward earnest eye. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man’s day. The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city’s smoke; While, wandering slowly up the river-side, He meditates on Him, whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around its roots; and while he thus surveys, With elevated joy, each rural charm, He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope, That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.