o <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />How many blessed groups this hour are bending, <br />Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their way <br />Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending, <br />Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day! <br />The halls from old heroic ages gray <br />Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, <br />With those thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play, <br />Send out their inmates in a happy flow, <br />Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread <br />With them those pathways, to the feverish bed <br />Of sickness bound; yet, O my God! I bless <br />Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled <br />My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled <br />To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />o<br /><br />Felicia Dorothea Hemans<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sabbath-sonnet/
