  Rest, rest! it is the Day of Rest—there needs no book to tell The truth that every thoughtful eye, each heart can read so well; Rest, rest! it is the Sabbath morn, a quiet fills the air, Whose whispered voice of peace repeats that rest is everywhere. O weary heart! O heart of wo! raise up thy toil-worn brow; The fields, the trees, the very breeze—they all are resting now: The air is still, there is no sound, save that unceasing hum, That insect song of summer-time that from the woods doth come. And even that seems fainter now, like voices far away, As though they only sang of rest, and laboured not to-day; The hum of bees seems softer, too, from out the clear blue heaven, As if the lowliest creatures knew this day for rest was given. The spacious tracts of meadow-land, of bean-fields, and of wheat, And all the glebe, are undisturbed by sound of Labour's feet; The cotter in his Sunday garb, with peace within his breast, Roams idly by the garden-side, and feels himself at rest. The streams, the trees, the woods, the breeze, the bird, and roving bee, Seem all to breathe a softer sound, a holier melody; Yon little church, too, tells of rest, to all the summer air, For the bell long since has ceased to peal that called to praise and prayer. But while I stand 'mid these tall elms, a sound comes creeping near, That falls like music heard in dreams upon my charmÈd ear; Like music heard in dreams of heaven, that sacred sound doth steal From where the old church aisles repeat the organ's solemn peal. Now Heaven be praised! a gracious boon is this sweet rest to me— How many shall this truth repeat to-day on bended knee! How many a weary heart it cheers, how many an aching breast: Now Heaven be praised, a gracious boon is this sweet Day of Rest! Pictor. Torquay. |
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