Alfred H. Miles, ed. The Sacred Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By The Christian Year (1827). II. Evening (Tis gone, that bright)John Keble (17921866)
’T
Fast fading from our wistful gaze;
Yon mantling cloud has hid from sight
The last faint pulse of quivering light.
The traveller on his way must press,
No gleam to watch on tree or tower,
Whiling away the lonesome hour.
It is not night if Thou be near:
Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise
To hide Thee from Thy servant’s eyes!
My searching rapturous glance I throw,
Tracing out Wisdom, Power, and Love,
In earth or sky, in stream or grove;—
Watch Time’s full river as it flows,
Scanning Thy gracious Providence,
Where not too deep for mortal sense:—
And all the flowers of life unfold;
Let not my heart within me burn,
Except in all I Thee discern.
My wearied eyelids gently steep,
Be my last thought, how sweet to rest
For ever on my Saviour’s breast.
For without Thee I cannot live:
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I dare not die.
Steer through the tempest Thine own ark:
Amid the howling wintry sea
We are in port if we have Thee.
’Twist Thee and us ordained to stand,—
Guide Thou their course, O Lord, aright,
Let all do all as in Thy sight.
So meekly up the hill of scorn,
Teach Thou Thy Priests their daily cross
To bear as Thine, nor count it loss!
Have spurned to-day the voice divine,
Now, Lord, the gracious work begin;
Let him no more lie down in sin.
With blessings from Thy boundless store
Be every mourner’s sleep to-night,
Like infants’ slumbers, pure and light.
Ere through the world our way we take
Till in the ocean of Thy love
We lose ourselves, in Heaven above.