Bright shadows of true rest! some shoots of bliss;
Heaven once a week;
The next world’s gladness pre-possessed in this.
Henry Vaughan.
How many blessed groups this hour are bending
Through England’s primrose meadow paths, their way
Towards spire and tower, ’midst shadowy elms descending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day.
The halls from old heroic ages grey,
Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,