 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
64
OLD SABBATH DAYS.
The dear old Sabbath days,
The quiet Sabbath days of long ago!
Across these shadeless ways
The upstart mornings boldly come and go.
None lingers on our gaze,—
No Sabbath now will shine upon us so.
The quiet Sabbath days of long ago!
Across these shadeless ways
The 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The reverent night withdrawn,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.
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The reverent night withdrawn,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 walked
Through the hushed town, he met a spirit there,
That with his conscience talked
In low upbraidings, murmured through the air:
The very wild birds flocked
To the safe shelter of the house of prayer.
Through the hushed town, he met a spirit there,
That with his conscience talked
In low upbraidings, murmured through the air:
The very wild birds flocked
To the safe shelter of the house of prayer.
65
The little ones, who went
By twos, in larger footprints, up the lane,
Paused as the shepherd bent
Crossed the worn threshold, leaning on his cane:
While the rich orchard-scent
Passed in and mingled with the psalm's clear strain.
By twos, in larger footprints, up the lane,
Paused as the shepherd bent
Crossed the worn threshold, leaning on his cane:
While the rich orchard-scent
Passed 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.
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 sun
Shines quick and keen, as in the hurrying week;
And earthly noises stun
The spirit that would Heaven in silence seek.
The praise for hire is done,
While their own thoughts the people think and speak.
Shines quick and keen, as in the hurrying week;
And earthly noises stun
The 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 hour
Is sacred to the earnest worshipper,
And every humble flower
Is Nature's text, to those who wait on her:
But those old days had power
The sluggish soul's Bethesda-pool to stir.
Is sacred to the earnest worshipper,
And every humble flower
Is Nature's text, to those who wait on her:
But those old days had power
The sluggish soul's Bethesda-pool to stir.
The Sabbath day! how well
The Pilgrims loved it, for the peace it brought!
We in the shadow dwell
Of its pavilion, for our shelter wrought.
Why break our holiest spell?
Why count the good old Sabbath days for naught?
The Pilgrims loved it, for the peace it brought!
We in the shadow dwell
Of its pavilion, for our shelter wrought.
Why break our holiest spell?
Why count the good old Sabbath days for naught?
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |