Nay, look again, beside the hearth Where weary with his ten hours' mirth A bright-haired babe, with arm uprais'd Stole o'er him, while in faith he gazed Storms may rush in, and crimes and woes They may not mar the deep repose Of that immortal flower. Though only broken hearts be found No blight is on his slumbers sound, So gently slumber'd on the wave Nor deem'd how darkly roll'd With infant's blood for Israel's sake, What recks he of his mother's tears, The whispering reeds are all he hears, Wave his stern rod; and lo! a lake, Soon shall a mightier flood thy call To right and left the watery wall Such honour wins the faith that gave Hail, chosen type and image true In slumber and in glory too Shadow'd of old by Thee Save that in calmness thou didst sleep Where boding night-winds sigh'd. Sigh'd when at eve He laid Him down, But with a sound like flame At midnight from the mountain's crown Lo, how they watch, till He awake, How wistful count the waves that break O, faithless! know ye not of old The surges smote the keel as fast And hope and life were given. Behold a mightier far is here; Nor will He spare to leap, For the soul's sake He loves so dear, E'en now He dreams of Calvary ; Soon will He wake, and say The words of peace and might: Do ye His hour in calmness stay. J. Keble LIX THE DESTROYING ANGEL He stopp'd at last And a mild look of sacred pity cast Down on the sinful land where he was sent "Ah! yet," said he, "yet, stubborn king, repent, Whilst thus unarm'd I stand, Ere the keen sword of God fill my commanded hand; Suffer but yet thyself and thine to live: Who would, alas! believe That it for man," said he, "So hard to be forgiven should be, And yet for God so easy to forgive!" Through Egypt's wicked land his march he took, None, from the meanest beast to Pharaoh's purple heir. Whilst health and strength and gladness doth possess The festal Hebrew cottages; The blest destroyer comes not there Upon their doors he read, and understood Well was he skill'd i' the character divine; LX HOPES IN THE WILDERNESS From the song of the Manna Gatherers We beside the wondrous river In the appointed hour shall stand, Thy bright cloud, and outstretch'd hand : We shall rest on Abraham's land. Not by manna showers at morning Year by year our murmurings chide. There, no prophet's touch awaiting, In our dreams with thirsty heart. Deeps of blessing are before us : Glean we manna, And the song of Moses try. LXI J. Keble THE BURIAL OF MOSES By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab And no man knows that sepulchre, For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth; Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun. |