Second Sunday After Christmas

John Keble 1792 (Fairford) – 1866 (Bournemouth)



And wilt thou hear the fevered heart
  To Thee in silence cry?
And as th' inconstant wildfires dart
  Out of the restless eye,
Wilt thou forgive the wayward though
By kindly woes yet half untaught
A Saviours right, so dearly bought,
  That Hope should never die?

Thou wilt:  for many a languid prayer
  Has reached Thee from the wild,
Since the lorn mother, wandering there,
  Cast down her fainting child,
Then stole apart to weep and die,
Nor knew an angel form was nigh,
To show soft waters gushing by,
  And dewy shadows mild.

Thou wilt--for Thou art Israel's God,
  And Thine unwearied arm
Is ready yet with Moses' rod,
  The hidden rill to charm
Out of the dry unfathomed deep
Of sands, that lie in lifeless sleep,
Save when the scorching whirlwinds heap
  Their waves in rude alarm.

These moments of wild wrath are Thine -
  Thine, too, the drearier hour
When o'er th' horizon's silent line
  Fond hopeless fancies cower,
And on the traveller's listless way
Rises and sets th' unchanging day,
No cloud in heaven to slake its ray,
  On earth no sheltering bower.

Thou wilt be there, and not forsake,
  To turn the bitter pool
Into a bright and breezy lake,
  This throbbing brow to cool:
Till loft awhile with Thee alone
The wilful heart be fain to own
That He, by whom our bright hours shone,
  Our darkness best may rule.

The scent of water far away
  Upon the breeze is flung;
The desert pelican to-day
  Securely leaves her young,
Reproving thankless man, who fears
To journey on a few lone years,
Where on the sand Thy step appears,
  Thy crown in sight is hung.

Thou, who did sit on Jacob's well
  The weary hour of noon,
The languid pulses Thou canst tell,
  The nerveless spirit tune.
Thou from Whose cross in anguish burst
The cry that owned Thy dying thirst,
To Thee we turn, our Last and First,
  Our Sun and soothing Moon.

From darkness, here, and dreariness
  We ask not full repose,
Only be Thou at hand, to bless
  Our trial hour of woes.
Is not the pilgrim's toil o'erpaid
By the clear rill and palmy shade?
And see we not, up Earth's dark glade,
  The gate of Heaven unclose?

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 05, 2023

1:56 min read
61

Quick analysis:

Scheme ABABXAXB CDCDBBBD EFEFGGGF HIHIJJJI KLKLMMML JNJNOOON PQPQRRRQ XSXSATTO
Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 2,043
Words 379
Stanzas 8
Stanza Lengths 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8

John Keble

John Keble was an English churchman and poet, one of the leaders of the Oxford Movement. Keble College, Oxford was named after him. more…

All John Keble poems | John Keble Books

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