John Henry Newman (1801–1890)

THEY are at rest.

We may not stir the heaven of their repose

By rude invoking voice, or prayer addrest

In waywardness to those

Who in the mountain grots of Eden lie,

And hear the fourfold river as it murmurs by.

They hear it sweep

In distance down the dark and savage vale;

But they at rocky bed or current deep

Shall never more grow pale.

They hear, and meekly muse, as fain to know

How long untired, unspent, that giant stream shall flow

And soothing sounds

Blend with the neighb’ring waters as they glide;

Posted along the haunted garden’s bounds,

Angelic forms abide,

Echoing, as words of watch, o’er lawn and grove,

The verses of that hymn which seraphs chant above.