While every ray they send to us
Some message seems to bear.
Miss Lewis.
39. The Sabbath morn
So sweet;—all sounds save nature's voice are still;
Mute shepherd's song-pipe, mute the harvest horn,
A holier tongue is given to brook and rill;
Old men climb silently their cottage-hill,
There ruminate, and look sublime abroad,
Shake from their feet, as thought on thought comes still,