Poem by Caroline Fry (Wilson)

The Sabbath

You would that I write on the Sabbath of God,
But know you the meaning contain'd in that word?
You would that I write on the season of rest,
But know you by whom is that season possess'd?

And think you 'tis then, when the far-sounding bell
Is heard through the village, the city, and dell;
When the poor leave their labour, the wealthy their play,
And with hearts unrepenting assemble to pray?

When they who so thoughtlessly revell'd last night
In the temples of pleasure and godless delight,
Bring their tribute to-day to the house of the Lord,
All stain'd with their recent contempt of his word?

Or think you 'tis then, when, o'erwearied with toil,
The grave and industrious rest them awhile, -
Dismiss from their bosoms their earthly affairs,
Which to-morrow again are the whole of their cares?

Not such is the Sabbath our Father has given
To the child of His love and the heir of His heaven;
Not such is His rest, nor so little its worth,
Whose pleasures immortal are budding on earth.

But where is the Sabbath of God and of heaven?
In the breast of the saint, of the sinner forgiven.
And where is the rest of enjoyment divine?
In the heart of the Christian — And is it in thine?

And hast thou e'er felt, on the Sabbath-day morn,
That the love of thy God in thy bosom is borne?
Has thy heart been more light, and thy spirit more gay,
When thou wak'st at the dawn of the hallowed day?

And hast thou e'er learn'd that the earth and its joys
Are treasures all worthless as infantile toys,
Compar'd with the pleasures a Christian may prove,
As he hastes to the banquet of peace and of love

Hast thou felt that with joy from all else thou couldst sever,
Might this feeling celestial but last thee for ever?
That the pleasure unearthly, so transiently given,
Needs only duration to make it a heaven?

If thou hast, it is well; - this earnest of love,
This taste of the banquet preparing above,
Comes commission'd from God with a message divine;
To tell thee a share in that banquet is thine!

Be steadfast, be faithful; - the righteous below
Have almost exhausted their chalice of woe;
The wicked have fill'd up their measure of crime,
And God's awful judgments are marking the time.

Be steadfast, be faithful; - the hour is nigh;
Th' omnipotent arm is uplifted on high;
The doom of the world even now is impeding;
The last blow of wrath is prepar'd for descending.

No Season is this to be wand'ring abroad,
'Twixt the camp of the foe and the standard of God;
No season is this, when the battle is near,
To leave it yet doubtful whose colours you wear.

The hour is coming—is coming e'en now, -
When the children of men must be parted below;
When the friend from the friend of his bosom must sever,
And the child and the parent be parted for ever.

When they whom affection and duty unite,
Must draw on each other, oppos'd in the fight;
And the righteous must loathe the companion he chose,
To rejoice in the vengeance of God on his foes.

Thy place at that hour needs no question but one, -
Has thy Sabbath eternal on earth been begun?
Hast thou, living, accepted the Spirit divine? -
If thou know'st it not here, it can never be thine!

1. Patience

Edward Bulwer-Lytton The Sabbath ("Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale")

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