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.

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 delivered from the dead
Our Sun of Life, and will for aye renew
To faithful souls the import of thy name.