SABBATH CHIMES.
THERE'S music in the morning air,
A holy voice and sweet,
Far calling to the house of prayer
The humblest peasant's feet.
From hill and vale and distant moor,
Long as the chime is heard,
Each cottage sends its tenants poor
For God's enriching word.
The warrior from his armed tent,
The seaman from his tide,
Far as the Sabbath chimes are sent
In Christian nations wide, —
Thousands and tens of thousands bring
Their sorrows to His shrine,
And taste the never-failing spring
Of Jesus' love divine!
If, at an earthly chime, the tread
Of million, million feet
Approach where'er the Gospel's read
In God's own temple seat,
How blessed the sight, from death's dark sleep
To see God's saints arise;
And countless hosts of angels keep
The Sabbath of the skies!
—Charles Swain