The Summer Sabbath. The woods my Church, to-day—my preacherboughs, Whispering high homilies through leafy lips ; And worshippers, in every bee that sips Sweet cordial from the tiniest flower, that grows ’Mid the young grass, and, in each bird, that dips Light pinions in the sunshine as it throws Gold showers upon green trees. All things around Are full of Prayer ! The very blush which tips Yon snowy cloud, is bright with adoration ! The grass breathes incense forth, and all theground Is a wide altar ; while the stillest sound Is vibrating with praise. No profanation Reaches the thoughts, while thus to ears and eyes Nature her music and her prayer supplies !