The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/A Sabbath Summer Noon
A Sabbath Summer Noon.
The calmness of this noontide hour,
The shadow of this wood,
The fragrance of each wilding flower,
Are marvellously good;
Oh, here crazed spirits breathe the balm
Of nature's solitude!
It is a most delicious calm
That reste th everywhere—
The holiness of soul-sung psalm,
Of felt but voiceless prayer!
With hearts too full to speak their bliss,
God's creatures silent are.
They silent are; but not the less,
In this most tranquil hour,
Of deep unbroken dreaminess,
They own that Love and Power
Which, like the softest sunshine, rests
On every leaf and flower.
How silent are the song-filled nests
That crowd this drowsy tree—
How mute is every feathered breast
That swelled with melody!
And yet bright bead-like eyes declare
This hour is extacy.
Heart forth! as uncaged bird through air,
And mingle in the tide
Of blessed things that, lacking care,
Now full of beauty glide
Around thee, in their angel hues
Of joy and sinless pride.
Here, on this green bank that o'er-views
The far retreating glen,
Beneath the spreading beech-tree muse,
On all within thy ken;
For lovelier scene shall never break
On thy dimmed sight again.
Slow stealing from the tangled brake
That skirts the distant hill,
With noiseless hoof two bright fawns make
For yonder lapsing rill;
Meek children of the forest gloom,
Drink on and fear no ill!
And buried in the yellow broom
That crowns the neighbouring height,
Couches a loutish shepherd groom,
With all his flocks in sight;
Which dot the green braes gloriously
With spots of living light.
It is a sight that filleth me
With meditative joy,
To mark these dumb things curiously,
Crowd round their guardian boy;
As if they felt this Sabbath hour
Of bliss lacked all alloy.
I bend me towards the tiny flower,
That underneath this tree
Opens its little breast of sweets
In meekest modesty,
And breathes the eloquence of love
In muteness, Lord! to thee.
There is no breath of wind to move
The flag-like leaves that spread
Their grateful shadow far above
This turf-supported head;
All sounds are gone—all murmurings
With living nature wed.
The babbling of the clear well-springs,
The whisperings of the trees,
And all the cheerful jargonings
Of feathered hearts at ease;
That whilome filled the vocal wood,
Have hushed their minstrelsies.
The silentness of night doth brood
O'er this bright summer noon;
And nature, in her holiest mood
Doth all things well attune
To joy, in the religious dreams
Of green and leafy June.
Far down the glen in distance gleams
The hamlet's tapering spire,
And glittering in meridial beams,
Its vane is tongued with fire;
And hark how sweet its silvery bell—
And hark the rustic choir!
The holy sounds float up the dell
To fill my ravished ear,
And now the glorious anthems swell
Of worshippers sincere—
Of hearts bowed in the dust, that shed
Faith's penitential tear.
Dear Lord! thy shadow is forth spread
On all mine eye can see;
And filled at the pure fountain-head
Of deepest piety,
My heart loves all created things,
And travels home to Thee.
Around me while the sunshine flings
A flood of mocky gold,
Aly chastened spirit once more sings
As it was wont of old,
That lay of gratitude which burst
From young heart uncontrolled,
When, in the midst of nature nursed,
Sweet influences fell
On childly hearts that were athirst,
Like soft dews in the bell
Of tender flowers that bowed their heads,
And breathed a fresher smell.
So, even now this hour hath sped
In rapturous thought o'er me,
Feeling myself with nature wed—
A holy mystery—
A part of earth, a part of heaven,
A part, great God! of Thee.
Fast fade the cares of life's dull sweven,
They perish as the weed,
While unto me the power is given,
A moral deep to read
In every silent throe of mind
External beauties breed.