Our English Sabbaths.
O England, thou art beautiful, and very dear to me,
And the spirit of thy noble sons is high and pure and free;
Full many a jewel sparkles clear in the crown upon thy brow,
But one is gleaming fairest in that glorious garland now.
It gleameth with a holy light, too pure for sinful earth,
In the twilight of this shadow-land it hath not had its birth;
'Tis polished by no mortal hand, its radiance is its own,
And it mingleth with the glory of the Father's dazzling throne.
Oh, gaze upon its beauty, reflecting yet the light
Of Eden's spotless, shadeless hours, in this our sin-made night;
Oh, gaze again, and thou shalt see, in that all-beauteous ray,
A gleam of that celestial morn which ne'er may fade away!
It is a gem of untold worth, it is a golden mine,
The pledge of an inheritance,—a gift of love Divine;
A monarch may not buy it,—oh, then let it not be sold!
Oh, England, dear old England, this, thy priceless treasure, hold!
Thy Sabbath is this treasure, a fount of ceaseless blessing,
And thou art rich and powerful, this glorious gift possessing;
Oh, heed not those who craftily would bid thee cast away
The diamond hours of Sabbath rest, no pleasure can repay.
There is a cloud o'er other lands, though fair their mountains be,
And beautiful their sunny plains, re-echoing with glee;
But on our Sabbath-loving heart it casts a saddening gloom,
While the mirth of all their songs is as the music of the tomb.
They know no holy Sabbath rest; and yet, above, around,
The trees are waving solemnly with a deep and holy sound;
And the flowers smile to greet His day, and the streams more softly roll,
And all things speak of God to the silent listening soul.
They heed it not! with song and glee the hallowed hours are passed;
The blessings which the Sabbath brings, aside are lightly cast;
And 'neath the sparkling wavelets of unsanctified delight
Is a dark, deep stream of weary toil from morn to welcome night.
There are some who listen eagerly while told of Sabbath rest,
As a thirsting desert pilgrim hears of Araby the blest;
'Mid their changeless seven days' labour they drop a hopeless tear,
‘Oh, would to God that we might have an English Sabbath here!’
Sad is their lot! but there are those within our own dear land
Who would forge for us such fetters, and burst our golden band,
Who sin in deeper bondage yet, while striving to be free
And know not that our Father's law is truest Liberty!
