Classic Poem

A VISION.

IN HOLY MEMORY OF JOHN KEBLE.

F RIEND of the gentle heart,
I watch the fluttering skylark soar and sing
From Fairford's grassy meads, till song and wing
Are of the heavens a part.

Beneath these chestnut-trees
Along the Coln, I see the swallows skim
And catch the distant sheepfold's tinkling hymn
Borne on the October breeze.

The tranquil sky is bright
With snowy clouds, as if Saint Michael's guard
In holy bivouac kept their watch and ward
Till All-Saint's perfect light.

Beside this rustic gate
I linger lovingly, and, silent, dream
Of a fair boy, to whom each tree and stream
Was friend and guide and mate;

To whom the mountain pine,
The hoary crag, the darkling woodland spring,
The ant, the bee, the simplest sylvan thing
Spake with a voice divine;

Whose clear subjective eye
Read Benedicite in the stars of heaven;
Traced the gold legend on the clouds of even,
And from the dappled sky

Caught the rare power to string
His harp to those high themes that link his name
With Ambrose and Augustine in a fame
The Church shall always sing.

Through green Saint Aldwyn's lanes
I reach the gray church-porch. With reverent feet
I enter, my Confession to repeat
Before these chancel-panes.

Softly the prismic rays
Flood the pure altar linen and outpour
Their rich libation over arch and floor,
While choir and organ raise.

The blessed Virgin's hymn;
And as the tide of swelling harmonies
Surges through nave and transept, my rapt eyes
With happy tears are dim.

Now — joy of all most sweet —
I see a pilgrim in his surplice stand
Beside Saint Aldwyn's priest, with lifted hand
One Credo to repeat;

And when in solemn awe
America with England chants the prayer
Lighten our darkness , comes before me there
The ladder Jacob saw.

Lighten our darkness, Lord!
Night comes apace — grant us Thy way to know
Undoubting! Nunc dimittis . Calm I go,
According to Thy word.

O'er Hampshire's billowy down
Rise the dark roofs of Winchester. How fleet
My thoughts, as I approach, with gladsome feet,
The grand historic town!

In the cathedral old,
I drink the beauty of the lights and glooms,
The chantries rare, the quaint and storied tombs,
The stains of green and gold.

Yon clustered towers beguile
My wandering gaze. I pass the gates, and walk
Where Herbert, Donne, and Walton, used to talk
In cloister, stall, and aisle.

The morning, rosy-red,
Flushes this wall. I read the name of Ken
Scrawled in a schoolboy's autograph, and then
With lifted heart and head

I sing, Awake my soul!
My spirit mounting on exultant wing
To those white cloisters where the sainted sing
Safe in their sheltered goal.

But here I may not stay.
There is one shrine, beloved o'er all the rest,
Where, ere the swift ship bear me to the West,
I long to kneel and pray.

How soft this noontide light
On Hursley's quiet vicarage; how clear
These English skies that saw " The Christian Year "
Complete its chaplet bright!

Fair is this room, and grave
With sober beauty, roof and tree; yet keep
My eager feet no more, but let me weep
Where yonder grasses wave.

I do not kneel — I cling
Close to this lowly grave. These All-Saints skies
Tell me this sod is precious in the eyes
Of Christ our risen King.

Then, Jesu, may not we
Love this dear dust which Thou hast said shall be
Made glorious in that day when land and sea
Give back Thine own to Thee?

O genius clear and fine,
Sounding with subtle skill the cosmic deeps
Of mathematic lore, where Wisdom keeps
Her secrets most divine;

O spirit unbeguiled,
Neighbour-familiar with the seers of old,
Bard, singer, artifex, and prophet bold,
Yet lowly as a child;

O honey-laden lips,
O patient faithful heart, O thoughtful brow,
O starry eyes, hid from our fondness now,
In death's supreme eclipse!

I lay my tear-stained face
On this green turf — I break, with reverent touch,
This spring of sage — how little, yet how much! —
I turn to leave the place —

And lo! the silver sound
Of sweet St. Mary's bell has called me back
From hallowed contemplation's storied track;
I tread no English ground,

I breathe no English air;
But sit alone beneath these tropic skies,
Holding upon my palm, with misty eyes,
A lock of Keble's hair.

And thou — what shall I say
To thee for this thy gift? My soul's deep springs
Are strangely stirred, as 'midst my precious things
These silver strands I lay.

Rare jewels for the gay,
Garter and rose for victors; but to me
How dearer far, from friends across the sea
This faded tress of gray!

Sun of my soul! The East
Drapes her red vestments with the spotless snow
Of morning's fair cloud-altar. Let us go
To our communion-feast;

And kneeling here alone
Where Christ's dear saints have knelt with us of yore,
Where still they kneel, though gliding feet no more
We hear, nor gentle tone —

Pray that to us be given
Grace so to follow in their path of light,
That with them we may sing, in robes of white,
Sun of my soul , in heaven.