by Mrs. Hemans.
A Sonnet, written by the late Mrs. Hemans during her illness, and said to be the last from the pen of that highly talented lady.
Originally published in Bradshaw's Manchester Journal (Bradshaw & Blacklock) vol.1 #7 (12 Jun 1841).
How many blessed groups this hour are bending
Thro' England's primrose meadow-paths, their way,
Toward spire and tower, 'mid shadowy elms ascending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow'd day!
The halls, from old heroic ages grey,
Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,
With those thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play,
Send out their inmates in a happy flow,
Like a freed verdant 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 fill'd
My chasten'd heart; and all its throbbings still'd
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness!