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On a most beautiful^Sunday morning - April 1824
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The worship of this Sabbath morn
How sweetly it begins!
With the full choral Hymn of Birds
Mingles no sad lament for sins.
The air is clear, the sunshine bright,
The dewdrops glitter on the trees:
My eye beholds a perfect Rest,
I hear not even a stirring breeze
⟨I hardly hear a stirring breeze⟩
A robe of stillness overspreads
The living lake, and the verdant field:
The very earth seems sanctified,
Protected by a holy shield
The steed now vagrant on that hill
Rejoice in on this holy day
Forgetful of the plough – the goad –
And, though subdued, is happy as the as the gay
A softened chastened voice of bleating lambs
Drops downward steadily from that lofty steep.
–I could believe this Sabbath peace
Was felt even by the Mother sheep,
Thus ye have passed one gladsome hour
But youth exhausts its power
The weary limbs, the panting beating doe
The throbbing head the hol
Pleads piteously for rest
⟨But would ask peaceful feeling
Yet
And
pleasure
Visible stillness & the happy voice
Of living things on the forest earth & in the air above⟩
