The Sabbath
Fresh glides the brook, and blows the gale,
Yet, yonder halts the quiet mill!
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail, --
How motionless and still!
Six days of toil, poor child of Cain,
Thy strength the slave of what may be;
The seventh, thy Limbs escape the chain, --
A God hath made thee free!
Ah! Tender was the law that gave
This holy respite to the breast --
To breathe the gale, to watch the wave,
And know the wheel may rest!
But, where the waves the gentlest glide,
What image charms, to lift thine eyes?
The spire, reflected on the tide,
Invites thee to the skies.
To teach the soul of its nobler worth,
This rest from mortal toil is given;
Go, snatch the brief reprieve from earth,
And pass -- a guest to Heaven.
They tell thee, in their dreaming school,
Of power from old dominion hurled,
When rich and poor, with juster rule,
Shall share the altered world.
Alas! since time itself began,
That fable hath but fooled the hour;
Each age that ripens power in man,
But subjects man to power.
Yet, every day in seven, at least,
One bright republic shall be known;
Man's world awhile hath surely ceased,
When God proclaims His own!
Six days may rank divide the poor,
O Dives, from thy banquet-hall!
The seventh, the Father opes the door,
And holds His feast for all!
Edward Bulwer Lytton
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