Part 12 (1/2)

But cheerfulness, so far from being incompatible with, seems to me inseparable from that true wors.h.i.+p which is the best source of the Sabbath seriousness I am advocating.

The remarks of the preacher were quite in unison with these thoughts, and pleased me so much that, were it admissible, I should be delighted to dignify my pages with them. By a few vivid touches, in language simple, yet beautiful, he sketched for us the first Sabbath amidst the living springs and fadeless bloom and verdant shades of Paradise, when sinless man communed with his Maker and his Father, not through the poor symbols of a ceremonial wors.h.i.+p, but face to face, as a man talketh with his friend. But all I would say of the Sabbath has been said a thousand times better than I could say it, by good George Herbert, whose words I am sure I need not apologize for introducing here.

SUNDAY.

O day most calm, most bright!

The fruit of this, the next world's bud; Th' indors.e.m.e.nt of supreme delight, Writ by a Friend, and with His blood; The couch of time; care's balm and bay:-- The week were dark, but for thy light; Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou Make up one man; whose face _thou_ art, Knocking at heaven with thy brow; The worky days are the back-part; The burden of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and bow, Till thy release appear.

Man hath straight forward gone To endless death. But thou dost pull And turn us round, to look on One, Whom, if we were not very dull, We could not choose but look on still; Since there is no place so alone, The which He doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are On which heaven's palace arched lies: The other days fill up the spare And hollow room with vanities.

They are the fruitful bed and borders, In G.o.d's rich garden; that is bare, Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal, glorious King.

On Sunday, heaven's gate stands ope; Blessings are plentiful and rife!

More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose, And did inclose this light for His: That, as each beast his manger knows, Man might not of his fodder miss.

Christ hath took in this piece of ground, And made a garden there, for those Who want herbs for their wound.

The Rest of our creation, Our great Redeemer did remove, With the same shake which, at his pa.s.sion, Did th' earth, and all things with it, move.

As Samson bore the doors away, Christ's hand's, though nailed, wrought our salvation, And did unhinge that day.

The brightness of that day We sullied, by our foul offence; Wherefore that robe we cast away, Having a new at His expense, Whose drops of blood paid the full price That was required, to make us gay, And fit for paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth: And, where the week-days trail on ground, Thy flight is higher, as thy birth.

Oh, let me take thee at the bound, Leaping with thee from seven to seven; Till that we both, being toss'd from earth, Fly hand in hand to Heaven!

It is the custom at Donaldson Manor to close the Sabbath evening with sacred music. Annie, at her father's request, played while we all sang his favorite evening hymn, which I here transcribe.

EVENING HYMN.

Father! by Thy love and power, Comes again the evening hour; Light hath vanish'd, labors cease, Weary creatures rest, in peace.

Those, whose genial dews distil On the lowliest weed that grows Father! guard our couch from ill, Lull thy creatures to repose.

We to Thee ourselves resign, Let our latest thoughts be Thine.

Saviour! to thy Father bear This our feeble evening prayer; Thou hast seen how oft to-day We, like sheep, have gone astray; Worldly thoughts and thoughts of pride, Wishes to Thy cross untrue, Secret faults and undescried Meet Thy spirit-piercing view.

Blessed Saviour! yet, through Thee, Pray that these may pardon'd be.

Holy Spirit! Breath of Balm!

Breathe on us in evening's calm.

Yet awhile before we sleep, We with Thee will vigils keep.