Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903.
By John Keble (17921866)Penance
HOW welcome, in the sweet still hour, | |
Falls on the weary heart, | |
Listening apart, | |
Each rustling note from breeze and bower; | |
The mimic rain ’mid poplar leaves, | 5 |
The mist-drops from the o’erloaded eaves, | |
Sighs that the herd half-dreaming heaves, | |
Or owlet chanting his dim part; | |
Or trickling of imprison’d rill | |
Heard faintly down some pastoral hill, | 10 |
His pledge, who rules the froward will | |
With more than kingly power, with more than wizard art. | |
But never mourner’s ear so keen | |
Watch’d for the soothing sounds | |
That walk their rounds | 15 |
Upon the moonlight air serene, | |
As the bright sentinels on high | |
Stoop to receive each contrite sigh | |
When the hot world hath hurried by, | |
And souls have time to feel their wounds. | 20 |
Nor ever tenderest bosom beat | |
So truly to the noiseless feet | |
Of shadows that from light clouds fleet, | |
Where Ocean gently rocks within his summer bounds, | |
As saints around the Glory-Throne | 25 |
To each faint sigh respond | |
And yearning fond | |
Of penitents that inly moan. | |