MARY.
247
His six days' labour out with the Commandment,
And rested with it on the day appointed.
I think I see him with his Sunday face,
The face that suited with his Sunday garments,
The wrinkles of the busy week smoothed down,
Walking to Church with us his children round him,
Never so happy or so proud as then,
Exchanging, as we moved along, grave greetings
With friendly neighbours, pausing on his way
To hear the bells' last merry chime, and see
From the stone gateway of the ancient Hall
The good old Squire come forth with his sweet daughters.
Oh! how I loved the Sunday! still I love it
As the hymn teaches, best of all the seven:
Rut then, I fear me for far other reasons
Than make it dear unto my spirit now!—
For then I sat by William in the church,
And then I walked with William in the evenings,
The long bright summer evenings—if I had
A wish on earth, it was that all the week
Were Sunday from one end unto the other,
And Summer, only Summer all the year!—
How often in my thoughts I walk alone
O'er all the spots where once I walked with him,
Talking at first of many things so gaily—
Of everything except the only thing
That both were thinking of, before he spoke
And told me that he loved; when afterwards
We walked o'er the same ground, how all was changed,
And rested with it on the day appointed.
I think I see him with his Sunday face,
The face that suited with his Sunday garments,
The wrinkles of the busy week smoothed down,
Walking to Church with us his children round him,
Never so happy or so proud as then,
Exchanging, as we moved along, grave greetings
With friendly neighbours, pausing on his way
To hear the bells' last merry chime, and see
From the stone gateway of the ancient Hall
The good old Squire come forth with his sweet daughters.
Oh! how I loved the Sunday! still I love it
As the hymn teaches, best of all the seven:
Rut then, I fear me for far other reasons
Than make it dear unto my spirit now!—
For then I sat by William in the church,
And then I walked with William in the evenings,
The long bright summer evenings—if I had
A wish on earth, it was that all the week
Were Sunday from one end unto the other,
And Summer, only Summer all the year!—
How often in my thoughts I walk alone
O'er all the spots where once I walked with him,
Talking at first of many things so gaily—
Of everything except the only thing
That both were thinking of, before he spoke
And told me that he loved; when afterwards
We walked o'er the same ground, how all was changed,
