Surely, methinks, this Sabbath morn
Some brighter sunshine should adorn
Than Heaven vouchsafes on common days;
And buds should burst, and all the throng
Of busy warblers crowd their song
To help the race of man to praise.

But on its birth no sun hath shined;
Ever the deep voice of the wind
Sweepeth the tree--tops far and near:
And on the branches not a bird
As on past morning--tides, is heard,
But all is winter--bound and drear.

Yet this ungladsome sky may teach
A lesson, and these winds may preach
A sermon in the nation's ear;
And souls not all unapt to learn
Some dim forebodings may discern
Of new disquietude and fear.

Great God, with trembling we rejoice;
The echo of thy warning voice
Yet vibrates in the middle air:
Not yet thy glittering sword of death
Is peaceful laid within its sheath,
Ready to strike, as now to spare.