John Keble

Sweet is the infant's waking smile,
And sweet the old man's rest--
But middle age by no read more

Sweet is the infant's waking smile,
And sweet the old man's rest--
But middle age by no fond wile,
No soothing calm is blest.

Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
To the inward ear devout,
Touched by light, with heavenly warning
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Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
To the inward ear devout,
Touched by light, with heavenly warning
Your transporting chords ring out.
Every leaf in every nook,
Every wave in every brook,
Chanting with a solemn voice
Minds us of our better choice.

Feast of John Keble, Priest, Poet, Tractarian, 1866 The deaf may hear the Saviour's voice, The fettered tongue its chains read more

Feast of John Keble, Priest, Poet, Tractarian, 1866 The deaf may hear the Saviour's voice, The fettered tongue its chains may break; But the deaf heart, the dumb by choice, The laggard soul that will not wake, The guilt that scorns to be forgiven -- These baffle e'en the spells of heaven.

And taught by thee the Church prolongs
Her hymns of high thanksgiving still.

And taught by thee the Church prolongs
Her hymns of high thanksgiving still.

But when eve's silent footfall steals
Along the eastern sky,
And one by one to earth reveals
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But when eve's silent footfall steals
Along the eastern sky,
And one by one to earth reveals
Those purer fires on high.