o 




How many blessed groups this hour are bending, 
Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their way 
Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending, 
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day! 
The halls from old heroic ages gray 
Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, 
With those thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play, 
Send out their inmates in a happy flow, 
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread 
With them those pathways, to the feverish bed 
Of sickness bound; yet, O my God! I bless 
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled 
My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled 
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness. 





o