IZAAK WALTON AND HIS FRIENDS 237 



Sunday 



O Day most calm, most bright, 

 The fruit of this, the next world's bud, 

 The 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. 



The other days and thou 

 Make up one man ; whose face thou art, 

 Knocking at heaven with thy brow ; 

 The working- days are the back-part ; 

 The burden of the week lies there. 

 Making the whole to stoop and bow, 



Till thy release appear. 



Man had 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. 



