Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SABBATH MORNING, by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SABBATH MORNING, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: How beautiful the sunday morn, amid
Last Line: Leap up, to put its glorious garments on.
Subject(s): Sabbath; Sunday


HOW beautiful the Sunday morn, amid
The quietude of nature. Spreading trees,
And the simplicity of rural life
Best harmonize with its divine intent;
And more than pompous cities, or the throngs
That flow unceasing thro' their crowded streets,
Welcome its silent spirit. Here, and there,
A rustic household, toward the village church
Wind through green lanes, where still the dewy grass
Reserves its diamonds for them. Happy sire,
And peaceful grandsire, with his hoary hair,
And joyous children, their fresh, ruddy brows
Compos'd to serious thought, and even the babe
In its young innocence, a wondering guest,
Wend forth, in blessed company, to pay
Their vows to Him, who heeds the pure in heart.

Heaven whispereth earth. And lo! an answering sigh
Speeds from the winds, as they unfold their wings
Impalpable, and touch the dimpling streams,
And wave the plants, while from the leafy groves
Steals deeper melody. Methinks, the sea
Murmureth in tone subdued, as if its waves
Paus'd in their tyrant play, or cowering heard
That warning voice, which to the banish'd man
In rocky Patmos, taught unuttered things,
And in the spirit-trance of scenes sublime,
Bore all of self away.
Hail, hallow'd morn!
That binds a yoke on Vice. Drooping her head,
She by such quaint hypocrisy, doth show
How excellent is Virtue. Eve may light
Her origes up again, but at this hour,
She trembleth, and is still. Humility
From the cleft rock where she hath hid, doth mark
The girded majesty of God pass by,
And kneeling, wins a blessing. Grief foregoes
Her bitterness, and round the tear-wet urn
Twines simple flowers, still musing on His words
Who on this day despoil'd the conquering grave,
"Thy dead shall rise again."
But best, firm Faith
Enjoys the Sabbath. She doth lift her brow
And talk with angels, till the listening soul
That by the thraldom of the week was bow'd
To weariness, doth like the enfranchis'd slave
Leap up, to put its glorious garments on.





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