---

Скачать книгу

---

But when the Sabbath brings its kind release,

       And Care lies slumbering on the lap of Peace.

      The air is hushed, the street is holy ground;

       Hark! The sweet bells renew their welcome sound

       As one by one awakes each silent tongue,

       It tells the turret whence its voice is flung.

       The Chapel, last of sublunary things

       That stirs our echoes with the name of Kings,

       Whose bell, just glistening from the font and forge,

       Rolled its proud requiem for the second George,

       Solemn and swelling, as of old it rang,

       Flings to the wind its deep, sonorous clang;

       The simpler pile, that, mindful of the hour

       When Howe's artillery shook its half-built tower,

       Wears on its bosom, as a bride might do,

       The iron breastpin which the "Rebels" threw,

       Wakes the sharp echoes with the quivering thrill

       Of keen vibrations, tremulous and shrill;

       Aloft, suspended in the morning's fire,

       Crash the vast cymbals from the Southern spire;

       The Giant, standing by the elm-clad green,

       His white lance lifted o'er the silent scene,

       Whirling in air his brazen goblet round,

       Swings from its brim the swollen floods of sound;

       While, sad with memories of the olden time,

       Throbs from his tower the Northern Minstrel's chime—

       Faint, single tones, that spell their ancient song,

       But tears still follow as they breathe along.

      Child of the soil, whom fortune sends to range

       Where man and nature, faith and customs change,

       Borne in thy memory, each familiar tone

       Mourns on the winds that sigh in every zone.

       When Ceylon sweeps thee with her perfumed breeze

       Through the warm billows of the Indian seas;

       When—ship and shadow blended both in one—

       Flames o'er thy mast the equatorial sun,

       From sparkling midnight to refulgent noon

       Thy canvas swelling with the still monsoon;

       When through thy shrouds the wild tornado sings,

       And thy poor sea-bird folds her tattered wings—

       Oft will delusion o'er thy senses steal,

       And airy echoes ring the Sabbath peal

       Then, dim with grateful tears, in long array

       Rise the fair town, the island-studded bay,

       Home, with its smiling board, its cheering fire,

       The half-choked welcome of the expecting sire,

       The mother's kiss, and, still if aught remain,

       Our whispering hearts shall aid the silent strain.

       Ah, let the dreamer o'er the taffrail lean

       To muse unheeded, and to weep unseen;

       Fear not the tropic's dews, the evening's chills,

       His heart lies warm among his triple hills!

      Turned from her path by this deceitful gleam,

       My wayward fancy half forgets her theme.

       See through the streets that slumbered in repose

       The living current of devotion flows,

       Its varied forms in one harmonious band

       Age leading childhood by its dimpled hand;

       Want, in the robe whose faded edges fall

       To tell of rags beneath the tartan shawl;

       And wealth, in silks that, fluttering to appear,

       Lift the deep borders of the proud cashmere.

       See, but glance briefly, sorrow-worn and pale,

       Those sunken cheeks beneath the widow's veil;

       Alone she wanders where with HIM she trod,

       No arm to stay her, but she leans on God.

       While other doublets deviate here and there,

       What secret handcuff binds that pretty pair?

       Compactest couple! pressing side to side—

       Ah, the white bonnet that reveals the bride!

       By the white neckcloth, with its straitened tie,

       The sober hat, the Sabbath-speaking eye,

       Severe and smileless, he that runs may read

       The stern disciple of Geneva's creed

       Decent and slow, behold his solemn march;

       Silent he enters through yon crowded arch.

       A livelier bearing of the outward man,

       The light-hued gloves, the undevout rattan,

       Now smartly raised or half profanely twirled—

       A bright, fresh twinkle from the week-day world—

       Tell their plain story; yes, thine eyes behold

       A cheerful Christian from the liberal fold.

       Down the chill street that curves in gloomiest shade

       What marks betray yon solitary maid?

       The cheek's red rose that speaks of balmier air,

       The Celtic hue that shades her braided hair,

       The gilded missal in her kerchief tied—

       Poor Nora, exile from Killarney's side!

       Sister in toil, though blanched by colder skies,

       That left their azure in her downcast eyes,

       See pallid Margaret, Labor's patient child,

       Scarce weaned from home, the nursling of the wild,

       Where white Katahdin o'er the horizon shines,

       And broad Penobscot dashes through the pines.

       Still, as she hastes, her careful fingers hold

       The unfailing hymn-book in its cambric fold.

       Six days at drudgery's heavy wheel she stands,

       The seventh sweet morning folds her weary hands.

       Yes, child of suffering, thou mayst well be sure

       He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor!

      This weekly picture faithful Memory draws,

       Nor claims the noisy tribute of applause;

       Faint is the glow such barren hopes can lend,

       And frail the line that asks no loftier end.

       Trust me, kind listener, I will yet beguile

       Thy saddened features of the promised smile.

       This magic mantle thou must well divide,

       It has its sable and its ermine side;

       Yet, ere the lining of the robe appears,

       Take thou in silence what I give in tears.

      Dear listening soul, this transitory scene

       Of murmuring stillness, busily serene—

       This solemn pause, the breathing-space of man,

       The

---

Скачать книгу