A Sabbath Morning In The Country.

'Tis morning, and the meadows yet,     Are wet with gracious drops of dew.     Each blade of grass, and flow'r, is set     With sparkling gems of richest hue.     The sun, with rising glory, sheds     A radiance, that none divine,     Save those, who early leave their beds,     When glist'ning dew-drops briefly shine.     Just ere the rising sunbeams play,     From glorious orb, of rosy red,     There is no sound of life, no hum,     And but, seemingly, all things are dead.     But when the blessed, welcome beams,     Light up, and cheer, and warm the earth,     All things awaken from their dreams,     To celebrate Creation's birth.     The very fields are filled with life,     With hum of bee, and insect throng;     The woods are vocal, with the strife     Of friendly rivalry, in song.     But 'tis the Sabbath morn, and now     Are heard no sounds of industry,     Save milk-maid, calling to her cow,     Or buzzing of the toilsome bee.     Or save, perhaps, the gentle neigh     Of horses, answering the call,     For mother, father, child to-day     Must hear the holy words, that fall     From lips, that pray with them, and preach     To them, the old, old words of cheer.     They must receive the sounds, that teach     Those solemn truths, they love to hear.     But now, the sun's increasing heat     Hath dried the dew, and warm'd the air;     The feather'd songsters now retreat,     Fann'd by the sun's relentless glare.     The morning service now is o'er,     The pastor, kindly greeted too,     And, after greetings at the door,     They all their homeward way pursue.