HOW many blessed groups this hour are bending, Thro' 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 whose 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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BAY FIGHT by HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 21 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING FIRST CYCLE OF LOVE POEMS: 4 by GEORGE BARKER THE DEATH OF YE LIFE OF LOVE by JOSEPH BEAUMONT SANCTUARY by JOSIE CRAIG BERRY THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 101. AGE: 2 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |