DEAN MILMAN. 1791-1868 THE NATIVITY For Thou wert born of woman! Thou didst come, And not by thunders strew'd Was Thy tempestuous road, Nor indignation burnt before Thee on Thy way; Thy mother undefiled, In the rude manger laid to rest From off her virgin breast. The heavens were not commanded to prepare A gorgeous canopy of golden air, Nor stoop'd their lamps th' enthroned fires on high: Came wandering from afar, Gliding unchecked and calm along the liquid sky; The Eastern sages leading on As at a kingly throne, To lay their gold and odours sweet Before Thy infant feet. The Earth and Ocean were not hush'd to hear Bright harmony from every starry sphere; From all the cherub choirs And seraphs' burning lyres Pour'd thro' the host of heaven the charmed clouds along, One angel troop the strain began, Of all the race of man By simple shepherds heard alone, That soft Hosanna's tone. And when Thou didst depart, no car of flame From fatal Calvary With all thine own redeem'd out-bursting from their tombs. For Thou didst bear away from Earth But one of human birth, The dying felon by Thy side, to be In Paradise with Thee. Nor o'er Thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake; A little while the conscious earth did shake At that foul deed by her fierce children done; The world in darkness lay, Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun While Thou didst sleep within the tomb, Consenting to Thy doom; Ere yet the white-robed Angel shone THE REV. JOHN KEBLE. 1792-1866 THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT What went ye out to see O'er the rude sandy lea, Where stately Jordan flows by many a palm, Or where Gennesaret's wave Delights the flowers to lave, That o'er her western slope breathe airs of balm? All through the summer night Those blossoms red and bright Spread their soft breasts, unheeding to the breeze, Like hermits watching still Around the sacred hill, Where erst our Saviour watched upon His knees. The Paschal moon above Seems like a Saint to rove, Left shining in the world with Christ alone; Sleeps sweetly in th' embrace Of mountains terraced high with mossy stone. Here may we sit, and dream Till to our soul the former days return; Where thousands once He fed, The world's incarnate Maker we discern. O cross no more the main, Wandering so wild and vain, To count the reeds that tremble in the wind, On listless dalliance bound Like children gazing round, Who on God's works no seal of Godhead find: Bask not in courtly bower, Or sun-bright hall of power, Pass Babel quick, and seek the holy land- Turn with undazzled eye : To Bethlehem's glade, or Carmel's haunted strand. Or choose thee out a cell In Kedron's storied dell, Beside the Springs of Love, that never die; Among the olives kneel The chill night blast to feel, And watch the moon that saw thy Master's agony. Then rise at dawn of day, And wind thy thoughtful way, Where rested once the Temple's stately shade,- The city's northern bound, To th' other holy garden, where the Lord was laid. Who thus alternate see His death and victory, Rising and falling as on angel wings They, while they seem to roam, Draw daily nearer home Their heart untravell'd still adores the King of Kings. TWENTIETH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY Where is thy favour'd haunt, eternal Voice, Where, undisturb'd by sin and earth, the soul 'Tis on the mountain's summit dark and high, 'Tis 'mid the strong foundations of the earth, No sounds of worldly toil ascending there Lone Nature feels that she may freely breathe, Are heard her sacred tones: the fitful sweep Through wither'd bents-romantic note and clear, The wheeling kite's wild solitary cry, And scarcely heard so high, The dashing waters when the air is still That winds unseen beneath the shaggy fell, Such sounds as make deep silence in the heart 'Tis then we hear the voice of God within, Child of my love! how have I wearied thee? Have I not brought thee from the house of slaves, And set my saints before thee in the way, Lest thou should'st faint or stray? |