The Summer Sabbath.
The woods my Church, to-day—my preacher
boughs,1
boughs,1
Whispering high homilies through leafy lips ;2
And worshippers, in every bee that sips3
Sweet cordial from the tiniest flower, that grows4
’Mid the young grass, and, in each bird, that dips5
Light pinions in the sunshine as it throws6
Gold showers upon green trees. All things around7
Are full of Prayer ! The very blush which tips8
Yon snowy cloud, is bright with adoration !9
The grass breathes incense forth, and all the
ground10
ground10
Is a wide altar ; while the stillest sound11
Is vibrating with praise. No profanation12
Reaches the thoughts, while thus to ears and eyes13
Nature her music and her prayer supplies !14