JOHN KEBLE

Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low, Low as the grave, high as th' Eternal Throne,

Guiding through light and gloom

Our mourning fancies wild,

Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve Around the western twilight, all subside Into a placid faith, That even with beaming eye

Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall ; So many relics of a frail love lost,

So many tokens dear

Of endless love begun.

Listen ! it is no dream : th' Apostles' trump Gives earnest of th' Archangel's ; calmly now,

Our hearts yet beating high

To that victorious lay

(Most like a warrior's, to the martial dirge Of a true comrade), in the grave we trust

Our treasure for awhile :

And if a tear steal down,

If human anguish o'er the shaded brow

Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth

Touches the coffin-lid ;

If at our brother's name,

Once and again the thought, * for ever gone,' Come o'er us like a cloud ; yet, gentle spright, Thou turnest not away, Thou know'st us calm at heart.

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