Felicia Dorothea Hemans (Фелиция Доротея Хеманз)

Sabbath Sonnet

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

1. To a Departed Spirit
2. Cœur de Lion at the Bier of His Father
3. Address to Thought
4. To a Younger Child
5. The Vassal’s Lament for the Fallen Tree

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