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Luce sacra requiescat humus, requiescat arator, Et grave, suspenso vomere, cesset opus.
How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village broods: The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
But chiefly Man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, SABBATH! thee I hail, the poor man's day. On other days, the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground Both seat and board; screened from the winter's cold, And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosomed in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;