I.
It is the time of rest, the Sabbath day,
That summons from the heart the gentle strain;
Nor well may those withhold the votive lay,
Who know the joys, that follow in its train.
The Sabbath! What associations cling,
Holy and high, to that beloved name!
It is not mine upon poetic wing
To soar aloft, and bear it forth to fame;
But e' en from one like me a tribute it may claim.
It is the time of rest, the Sabbath day,
That summons from the heart the gentle strain;
Nor well may those withhold the votive lay,
Who know the joys, that follow in its train.
The Sabbath! What associations cling,
Holy and high, to that beloved name!
It is not mine upon poetic wing
To soar aloft, and bear it forth to fame;
But e' en from one like me a tribute it may claim.