Sunday.

God made the day of rest,
    The holy Sabbath day,
For us to think and talk of Him,
    And not for work or play.

I'll put away my toys
    Safely, the night before;
And Sundays I'll be very still,
    Till Monday comes once more.

And then mamma will say,
    That, though I am so small,
I yet can please the great, good God,
    Who takes care of us all.

I love these Sabbath days,
    Which God to us doth give;
And may I love them more and more,
    Each day and year I live!

H. P. Nichols

No biography available

H. P. Nichols

The Fishers.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

The Monkey.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

Sunday.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

The Child Who Would Not Be Washed

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

English

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Sunday Night.

The holy Sabbath day has fled;
    And has it been well spent?
Have I remembered what was said,
    And why the day was sent?

May I be better all the week,
    For what to-day has taught;
May I God's love and favor seek,
    And do the things I ought!

H. P. Nichols

Sunday.

Come, thou blessed day of rest!
Soother of the tortured breast,
Wearied souls release from toil,
Life's eternal sad turmoil;
How I love thy tuneful bells
Which a welcome story tells!
Bids the wanderer rest and pray
On this peaceful holy-day.
All creation seems to pause--
Man, uncatechized by laws,
Looks to God with grateful eyes,
In such blessed sympathies,
All his rebel nature dies!
See the monster crime hath made,
Resting from his restless trade,
Unfit to live, afraid to die,
Hear his deep unconscious sigh,
See his former horrid mien,
Changed to the bright, serene,
View him on his BIBLE rest,
Care no longer gnaws his breast;
Heaven, in mercy, let him live,
Religion, such the peace you give!

Thomas Gent

Sunday.

'T is Sunday morning, dear mamma!
    I do not wish to play;
Last night I put my dolls and toys
    Safe in my box away.

I'll come and sit down by your side,
    While you the story tell
Of the good little Joseph, whom
    His father loved so well.

And of the time when waters dark
    Covered the world around;
And all but Noah in his ark,
    Beneath the waves were drowned.

And of the gentle dove, that forth
    O'er those wide waters flew,
And twice, with weary wing, returned,
    No resting-place in view.

And how the infant Moses, too,
    Floated the Nile along;
And how his mother made for him
    The basket cradle strong.

Please tell these Bible-stories then,
    And take me on your knee,
And I'll...

H. P. Nichols

Sunday.

The Sabbath-day, of every day the best,
The poor mans happiness, a poor man sings;
When labour has no claim to break his rest,
And the light hours fly swift on easy wings.
What happiness this holy morning brings,
How soft its pleasures on his senses steal;
How sweet the village-bells' first warning rings;
And O how comfortable does he feel,
When with his family at ease he takes his early meal.

The careful wife displays her frugal hoard,
And both partake in comfort though they're poor;
While love's sweet offsprings crowd the lowly board,
Their little likenesses in miniature.
Though through the week he labour does endure,
And weary limbs oft cause him to complain,
This welcome morning always brings a cure;
It teems with joys his soul to entertain,
And...

John Clare

Sunday Walks.

How fond the rustic's ear at leisure dwells
On the soft soundings of his village bells,
As on a Sunday morning at his ease
He takes his rambles, just as fancies please,
Down narrow balks that intersect the fields,
Hid in profusion that its produce yields:
Long twining peas, in faintly misted greens;
And wing'd-leaf multitudes of crowding beans;
And flighty oatlands of a lighter hue;
And speary barley bowing down with dew;
And browning wheat-ear, on its taper stalk,
With gentle breezes bending o'er the balk,
Greeting the parting hand that brushes near
With patting welcomes of a plenteous year.
Or narrow lanes, where cool and gloomy-sweet
Hedges above-head in an arbour meet,
Meandering down, and resting for awhile
Upon a moss-clad molehill or a stile;
...

John Clare

A Sabbath Morning In The Country.

'Tis morning, and the meadows yet,
Are wet with gracious drops of dew.
Each blade of grass, and flow'r, is set
With sparkling gems of richest hue.
The sun, with rising glory, sheds
A radiance, that none divine,
Save those, who early leave their beds,
When glist'ning dew-drops briefly shine.

Just ere the rising sunbeams play,
From glorious orb, of rosy red,
There is no sound of life, no hum,
And but, seemingly, all things are dead.

But when the blessed, welcome beams,
Light up, and cheer, and warm the earth,
All things awaken from their dreams,
To celebrate Creation's birth.

The very fields are filled with life,
With hum of bee, and insect throng;
The woods are vocal, with the strife
Of friendly rivalry, in song.
But 'tis t...

Thomas Frederick Young