Sabbath Days

THE dear old Sabbath days,The quiet Sabbath days of long ago!Across these shadeless waysThe upstart mornings boldly come and go.None lingers on our gaze,—No Sabbath now will shine upon us so.

Those gentle days are gone,At our unworthy doors their dust off-shaken.No more that noiseless dawn,For which no other dawn could be mistaken,—The reverent night withdrawn,—Looks at us with calm eyes, till we awaken.

If any straggler walkedThrough the hushed town, he met a spirit there,That with his conscience talkedIn low upbraidings, murmured through the air.The very wild birds flockedTo the safe shelter of the house of prayer.

The little ones, who wentBy twos, in larger footprints, up the lane,Paused as the shepherd bentCrossed the worn threshold, leaning on his cane:While the rich orchard-scentPassed in and mingled with the psalm's clear strain.

The sun, slow moving round,Looked from the bending heavens approval sweet.There was no jarring sound;The hours took off the sandals from their feet,For earth seemed holy ground,—A temple where the soul her God could meet.

But now the Sabbath sunShines quick and keen, as in the hurrying week;And earthly noises stunThe spirit that would heaven in silence seek.The praise for hire is done,While their own thoughts the people think and speak.

'T is true that every hourIs sacred to the earnest worshipper,And every humble flowerIs Nature's text, to those who wait on her:But those old days had powerThe sluggish soul's Bethesda-pool to stir.

The Sabbath day! how wellThe Pilgrims loved it, for the peace it brought!We in the shadow dwellOf its pavilion, for our shelter wrought.Why break our holiest spell?Why count the good old Sabbath days for naught?