Mrs. Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1793–1835)

(Composed a few days before her death, and dedicated to her brother)

HOW many blessed groups this hour are bending,

Through England’s primrose meadow-paths, their way

Towards spire and tower, ’midst shadowy elms ascending,

Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day!

The halls from old heroic ages gray

Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,

With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play,

Send out their inmates in a happy flow,

Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread

With them those pathways,—to the feverish bed

Of sickness bound;—yet, O my God! I bless

Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled

My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled

To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness!