Sunday in England. 
By Hemans, Felicia Dorothea. 


How many blessed groups this hour are bending,
Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their way
Toward spire and tower, midst shadowy elms ascending,
When the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day;
The halls, from old heroic ages grey,
Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,
With whose 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.