Written On Sunday Morning

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!

I to the Woodlands wend, and there

In lovely Nature see the GOD OF LOVE.

The swelling organ's peal

Wakes not my soul to zeal,

Like the wild music of the wind-swept grove.

The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest

Rouse not such ardor in my breast,

As where the noon-tide beam

Flash'd from the broken stream,

Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight;

Or where the cloud-suspended rain

Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain;

Or when reclining on the clift's huge height

I mark the billows burst in silver light.



Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!

I to the Woodlands shall repair,

Feed with all Natures charms mine eyes,

And hear all Natures melodies.

The primrose bank shall there dispense

Faint fragrance to the awaken'd sense,

The morning beams that life and joy impart

Shall with their influence warm my heart.

And the full tear that down my cheek will steal,

Shall speak the prayer of praise I feel!



Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!

I to the woodlands bend my way

And meet RELIGION there.

She needs not haunt the high-arch'd dome to pray

Where storied windows dim the doubtful day:

With LIBERTY she loves to rove.

Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslip'd dale;

Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove,

Sweet are these scenes to her, and when the night

Pours in the north her silver streams of light,

She woos Reflexion in the silent gloom,

And ponders on the world to come.

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