How many blessed groups this hour are bending,
Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their way Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day!
The halls from old heroic ages gray 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 vernal 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 filled My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.
This poem, dictated to her brother on 26th April 1835, was the last one ever written by Mrs Hemans who died on May 26th that year.
JS
