The Sabbath Morning

John Leyden (1775–1811)

WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn,

That slowly wakes while all the fields are still!

A soothing calm on every breeze is borne;

A graver murmur gurgles from the rill;

And echo answers softer from the hill;

And sweeter sings the linnet from the thorn:

The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.

Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!

The rooks float silent by in airy drove;

The sun a placid yellow lustre throws;

The gales that lately sighed along the grove

Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose

The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move,—

So smiled that day when the first morn arose!