The Sabbath Worshipper

'Twas Sabbath morn. A holy light Hung o'er the hill and wood, O'er wooded stream, and lofty height, And mighty solitude. All Nature lay in bright repose, And from her silent lips arose, In mystic accents through the air, The voice of worship, praise, and prayer.

I gazed into the bright, blue sky, Then bent my eyes to view, The earth which lay so sweetly by In robes of summer hue; I dreamed that blessed ones might deign, To leave their radiant seats again, Nor weep to yield their home in heaven, For the bright ones that Earth had given.

On morn, so holy, pure, and bright— I looked on one most fair, Whose braided hair was dark as night, And wrought with maiden care— Forth issue from her father's door, Walking with sweet mien evermore, As if blest spirits led her there, And she beheld their forms in air.

Hark! how it thrills the holy air— The choir's high song of praise, Which many voices mingling there In sweetest concert, raise, And oh! how warmly, fervently Those words of prayer ascend the sky, And joined with that loud strain of praise Blend with the song that Seraphs raise.

And sits that lovely lady there, Uniting in the strain? And does she bend her form so fair, When silence comes again? Yes! she was there, and lovelier there, Than she this hour could be elsewhere; Though few beneath yon heavenly sky Might with her erring beauty vie.