THE Sabbath morn came sweetly on,
The sunbeams mildly shone upon
Each rock, and tree, and flower;
And floating on the southern gale,
The clouds seemed gloriously to sail
Along the Heavens, as if to hail
That calm and holy hour.
By winding path and alley green,
The lightsome and the young were seen
To join the gathering throng;
While with slow step and solemn look,
The elders of the village took
Their way, and as with age they shook,
Went reverently along.
They meet — the 'sweet psalm-tune' they raise;
They join their grateful hearts, and praise
The Maker they adore.
They met in holy joy; but they
Grieve now, who saw His wrath that day,
And sadly went they all away,
And better than before.
There was one cloud, that overcast
The valley and the hill, nor past
Like other mists away:
It moved not round the circling sweep
Of the clear sky, but dark and deep,
Came down upon them sheer and steep,
Where they had met to pray.
One single flash! it rent the spire,
And pointed downward all its fire—
What could its power withstay?
There was an aged head; and there
Was beauty in its youth, and fair
Floated the young locks of her hair—
It called them both away!
The Sabbath eve went sweetly down;
Its parting sunbeams mildly shone
Upon each rock and flower;
And gently blew the southern gale,
— But on it was a voice of wail,
And eyes were wet, and cheeks were pale,
In that sad evening hour.