’Tis Sabbath now, and Morn, with glowing soul,
Stands gracious on his heavenly altar grand;
Seems, in his spreading lustre, to unroll
Devotion’s halcyon programme o’er the land:
A thousand temples lift their spiry crowns,
To catch the tone of heavenly symphony;
Then their deep voices pour their pealing sounds--
The mighty organ of the world to-day.
And from their choir, which all New England fills,
Their iron tongues the voluntary peal:
Lo! see it waken, all our vales and hills,
And bid the soul an inspiration feel.
Our homes, responsive to the summons wide,
Largely devotion’s pious walks attend;
Or, consecrating home and fireside,
To God upon the heart’s own altar bend.
And piety’s true altar is the heart;
And every holy thought must worship there;
And in that humble and aspiring part,
Must offer its divinist psalm and prayer.
There conscience, God’s apostle, ever stands,
And from His volume teaches the divine.--
Nor circumscribed, but in all human lands,
And in all times, his heavenly sermons shine.