THE SABBATH OF THE WORLD. From an unpublished Dramatic Poem. Then, spent at last six thousand years of ill, The Day of Rest-the thousand years of peace- Shall weep its doom, no shadowy Night close in Then shall the wilderness rejoice, the desert Bloom as the rose; these snows shall then reflect The dazzling radiance of unclouded Suns, Ran wild, the fir-tree where of late the thorn. 1852. |