' The advanced religionist,
addressing his wife, exclaims,
The morning of our rest has come,
The sun is shining clear;
I see it on the steeple-top:
Put on your shawl, my dear,
And let us leave the smoky town,
The dense and stagnant lane,
And take our children by the hand
To see the fields again.
I've pined for air the livelong week;
For the smell of new-mown hay;
For a pleasant, quiet, country walk,
On a sunny Sabbath day.
Our parish church is cold and damp;
I need the air and sun;
We'll sit together on the grass,
And see the children run.
We'll watch them gather butter-cups,
Or cowslips in the dell,
Or listen to the cheerful sounds
Of the far-off village bell;
And thank our God with grateful hearts,
Though in the fields we pray;
And bless the healthful breeze of heaven,
On a sunny Sabbath day.
I'm weary of the stifling room,
Where all the week we're pent;
Of the alley fill'd with wretched life,
And odors pestilent:
And long once more to see the fields,
And the grazing sheep and beeves;
To hear the lark amid the clouds,
And the wind among the leaves;
And all the sounds that glad the air
On green hills far away:--
The sounds that breathe of Peace and Love,
On a sunny Sabbath day.
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