In our fields of childish pleasure, But though first love's impassioned blind ness Has passed away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last good-night. The ever rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago. DEAN MILMAN. 1791-1868 THE NATIVITY For Thou wert born of woman! Thou didst come, O Holiest to this world of sin and gloom, Not in Thy dread omnipotent array ; And not by thunders strew'd Was Thy tempestuous road, Nor indignation burnt before Thee on Thy way; But Thee, a soft and naked child, Thy mother undefiled, In the rude manger laid to rest From off her virgin breast. The heavens were not commanded to prepare A gorgeous canopy of golden air, Nor stoop'd their lamps th' enthroned fires on high; A single silent star Came wandering from afar, Gliding unchecked and calm along the liquid sky; The Eastern sages leading on As at a kingly throne, To lay their gold and odours sweet The Earth and Ocean were not hush'd to hear Bright harmony from every starry sphere; Nor at Thy presence brake the voice of song From all the cherub choirs And seraphs' burning lyres Pour'd thro' the host of heaven the charmed clouds along, One angel troop the strain began, By simple shepherds heard alone, And when Thou didst depart, no car of flame To bear Thee hence in lambent radiance came; Nor visible Angels mourn'd with drooping plumes, Nor didst Thou mount on high From fatal Calvary With all thine own redeem'd out-bursting from their tombs. For thou didst bear away from Earth The dying felon by Thy side, to be Nor o'er Thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake; A little while the conscious earth did shake At that foul deed by her fierce children done; A few dim hours of day The world in darkness lay, Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun While Thou didst sleep within the tomb, Consenting to Thy doom, Ere yet the white-robed Angel shone THE REV. JOHN KEBLE. 1792-1866 THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT What went ye out to see O'er the rude sandy lea, Where stately Jordan flows by many a palm, Or where Gennesaret's wave Delights the flowers to lave, That o'er her western slope breathe airs of balm ? All through the summer night Spread their soft breasts, unheeding to the breeze, Like hermits watching still Around the sacred hill, Where erst our Saviour watched upon His knees. The Paschal moon above Seems like a Saint to rove, Left shining in the world with Christ alone; Below, the lakes still face Sleeps sweetly in th' embrace Of mountains terraced high with mossy stone. Here may we sit, and dream Over the heavenly theme, Till to our soul the former days return; Where thousands once He fed, O cross no more the main, To count the reeds that tremble in the wind, On listless dalliance bound Like children gazing round, Who on God's works no seal of Godhead find : Bask not in courtly bower, Pass Babel quick, and seek the holy land- Turn with undazzled eye To Bethlehem's glade, or Carmel's haunted strand. Or choose thee out a cell In Kedron's storied dell, Beside the Springs of Love, that never die ; Among the olives kneel The chill night blast to feel, And watch the moon that saw thy Master's agony. |