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JAMES GRAHAME
Scottish poet and divine
(1765 - 1811)

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 doom'd
      To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground
        Both seat and board--screen'd from the winter's cold
          And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree;
            But on this day, embosom'd in his home,
              He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
                With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
                  Of giving thanks to God,--not thanks of form,
                    A word and a grimace, but reverently,
                      With cover'd face and upward earnest eye.
                        Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
                          The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
                            The morning air pure from the city's smoke,
                              As wandering slowly up the river's bank,
                                He meditates on Him whose powers he marks
                                  In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
                                    And in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
                                      Around the roots; and while he thus surveys
                                        With elevated joy each rural charm,
                                          He hopes, (yet fears presumption in the hope,)
                                            That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.
      - [Sabbath]

"Suffer that little children come to Me,
  Forbid them not." Emboldened by His words,
    The mothers onward press; but, finding vain
      The attempt to reach the Lord, they trust their babes
        To strangers' hands; the innocents, alarmed
          Amid the throng of faces all unknown,
            Shrink, trembling, till their wandering eyes discern
              The countenance of Jesus, beaming love
                And pity; eager then they stretch their arms,
                  And, cowering, lay their heads upon His breast.
      - [Children's Day]

The poor man's day.
      - [Sabbath]

How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
  Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
    The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
      - The Sabbath--Song [Sabbath]


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