Rest, rest! it is the Day of Rest--there needs no book to tell
The truth that every thoughtful eye, each heart can read so well;
Rest, rest! it is the Sabbath morn, a quiet fills the air,
Whose whispered voice of peace repeats that rest is everywhere.
O weary heart! O heart of wo! raise up thy toil-worn brow;
The fields, the trees, the very breeze--they all are resting now:
The air is still, there is no sound, save that unceasing hum,
That insect song of summer-time that from the woods doth come.
And even that seems fainter now, like voices far away,
As though they only sang of rest, and laboured not to-day;
The hum of bees seems softer, too, from out the clear blue heaven,
As if the lowliest creatures knew this day for rest was given.
The spacious tracts of meadow-land, of bean-fields, and of wheat,
And all the glebe, are undisturbed by sound of Labour's feet;
The cotter in his Sunday garb, with peace within his breast,
Roams idly by the garden-side, and feels himself at rest.
The streams, the trees, the woods, the breeze, the bird,
and roving bee,
Seem all to breathe a softer sound, a holier melody;
Yon little church, too, tells of rest, to all the summer air,
For the bell long since has ceased to peal that called to praise
and prayer.
But while I stand 'mid these tall elms, a sound comes creeping near,
That falls like music heard in dreams upon my charmèd ear;
Like music heard in dreams of heaven, that sacred sound doth steal
From where the old church aisles repeat the organ's solemn peal.
Now Heaven be praised! a gracious boon is this sweet rest to me--
How many shall this truth repeat to-day on bended knee!
How many a weary heart it cheers, how many an aching breast:
Now Heaven be praised, a gracious boon is this sweet Day of Rest!