Poems by Hartley Coleridge With a Memoir of his Life by his Brother. In Two Volumes |
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SUNDAY. |
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 | Poems by Hartley Coleridge |  |
366
SUNDAY.
Thou blessed day! I will not call thee last,
Nor Sabbath,—last nor first of all the seven,
But a calm slip of intervening heaven,
Between the uncertain future and the past;
As in a stormy night, amid the blast,
Comes ever and anon a truce on high,
And a calm lake of pure and starry sky
Peers through the mountainous depth of clouds amass'd.
Nor Sabbath,—last nor first of all the seven,
But a calm slip of intervening heaven,
Between the uncertain future and the past;
As in a stormy night, amid the blast,
Comes ever and anon a truce on high,
And a calm lake of pure and starry sky
Peers through the mountainous depth of clouds amass'd.
Sweet day of prayer! e'en they whose scrupulous dread
Will call no other day, as others do,
Might call thee Sunday without fear or blame;
For thy bright morn deliver'd from the dead
Our Sun of Life, and will for aye renew
To faithful souls the import of thy name.
Will call no other day, as others do,
Might call thee Sunday without fear or blame;
For thy bright morn deliver'd from the dead
Our Sun of Life, and will for aye renew
To faithful souls the import of thy name.
367
The ancient Sabbath was an end,—a pause,—
A stillness of the world; the work was done!
But ours commemorates a work begun.
Why, then, subject the new to antique laws?
The ancient Sabbath closed the week, because
The world was finish'd. Ours proclaims the sun,
Its glorious saint, alert its course to run.
Vanguard of days! escaped the baffled jaws
A stillness of the world; the work was done!
But ours commemorates a work begun.
Why, then, subject the new to antique laws?
The ancient Sabbath closed the week, because
The world was finish'd. Ours proclaims the sun,
Its glorious saint, alert its course to run.
Vanguard of days! escaped the baffled jaws
Of slumberous dark and death,—so fitly first
Is Sunday placed before the secular days;
Unmeetly clad in weeds, with arms reversed,
To trail in sullen thought by silent ways.
Like the fresh dawn, or rose-bud newly burst,
So let our Sabbath wear the face of praise!
Is Sunday placed before the secular days;
Unmeetly clad in weeds, with arms reversed,
To trail in sullen thought by silent ways.
Like the fresh dawn, or rose-bud newly burst,
So let our Sabbath wear the face of praise!
| Poems by Hartley Coleridge | |