George Herbert.    

Bishop Mant.    

Pope.    

Bible.    

Grahame.    

Longfellow.    

O. W. Holmes.    

Beecher.    

Coleridge.    

Empress Josephine.    

Frederic Saunders.    

	The Sabbaths of Eternity,
	One Sabbath deep and wide.

Tennyson.    

Daniel Webster.    

George Herbert.    

	Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
	The bridal of the earth and sky.

George Herbert.    

H. W. Beecher.    

	Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven
	What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.

Robert Browning.    

	So sang they, and the empyrean rung
	With Hallelujahs. Thus was Sabbath kept.

Milton.    

Professor Miller.    

	See Christians, Jews, one heavy Sabbath keep,
	And all the western world believe and sleep.

Pope.    

	How still the morning of the hallow’d day!
	Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush’d
	The ploughboy’s whistle, and the milkmaid’s song.

Grahame.    

George Herbert.    

Charles Dickens.    

	Now, really, this appears the common case
	Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday—
	But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Hood.    

Maria J. McIntosh.    

Sir Edmund Turner.    

Longfellow.    

Beecher.    

Emerson.    

	Let us escape! This is our holiday—
	God’s day, devote to rest; and through the wood
	We’ll wander, and perchance find heavenly food,
	So, profitless it shall not pass away.

W. G. Simms.    

Dr. Reade.    

Baptist Church Manual.    

Philip Henry.    

Macaulay.    

	The Sundaies of man’s life,
	Thredded together on time’s string,
	Make bracelets to adorn the wife
	Of the eternal, glorious King.
	On Sunday heaven’s gates stand ope;
	Blessings are plentiful and rife,
	More plentiful than hope.

Herbert.    

	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 stern Labour shut the poor
	From nature’s careless banquet-hall;
	The seventh, an Angel opes the door,
	And, smiling, welcomes all!

Bulwer.    

J. Milner.    

	Gently on tiptoe Sunday creeps,
	Cheerfully from the stars he peeps,
	Mortals are all asleep below,
	None in the village hears him go;
	E’en chanticleer keeps very still,
	For Sunday whispered, ’twas his will.

John Peter Hebel.    

Wilberforce.    

	Hail, Holy Day! the blessing from above
	Brightens thy presence like a smile of love,
	Smoothing, like oil upon a stormy sea,
	The roughest waves of human destiny—
	Cheering the good, and to the poor oppress’d
	Bearing the promise of their heavenly rest.

Mrs. Hale.    

	O day most calm, most bright,
	The fruit of this, the next world’s bud,
	Th’ indorsement 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.

George Herbert.    

	Bright shadows of true rest! some shoots of bliss;
	Heaven once a week;
	The next world’s gladness prepossest in this;
	A day to seek;
	Eternity in time; the steps by which
	We climb above all ages: lamps that light
	Man through his heap of dark days; and the rich
	And full redemption of the whole week’s flight.

Henry Vaughan.    

	For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way,
	He’d na let a cat on the Sabbath say “mew;”
	Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play,
	An’ Phœbus himsel’ could na travel that day,
	As he’d find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.

Moore.    

	The seventh day this; the jubilee of man:
	London! right well thou know’st the day of prayer:
	Then thy spruce citizen, wash’d artisan,
	And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air:
	The coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair,
	And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl;
	To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair;
	Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,
	Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.

Byron.    

James Hamilton.    

	Oh! welcome to the wearied Earth
	The Sabbath resting comes,
	Gathering the sons of toil and care
	Back to their peaceful homes;
	And, like a portal to the skies,
	Opens the House of God,
	Where all who seek may come and learn
	The way the Saviour trod.
	But holier to the wanderer seems
	The Sabbath on the deep,
	When on, and on, in ceaseless course,
	The toiling bark must keep,
	And not a trace of man appears
	Amid the wilderness
	Of waters—then it comes like dove
	Direct from heaven to bless.

Mrs. Hale.    

	But, chiefly, man the day of rest enjoys,
	Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man’s day:
	On other days, the man of toil is doom’d
	To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground
	Both seat and board—screen’d from the winter’s cold
	And summer’s heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree;
	But on this day, embosom’d in his home,
	He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
	With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
	Of giving thanks to God,—not thanks of form,
	A word and a grimace, but reverently,
	With cover’d face and upward earnest eye.
	Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man’s day.
	The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
	The morning air pure from the city’s smoke,
	As wandering slowly up the river’s bank.
	He meditates on Him whose powers he marks
	In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
	And in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
	Around the roots; and while he thus surveys
	With elevated joy each rural charm,
	He hopes, (yet fears presumption in the hope,)
	That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.

Grahame.