Here you will find the Poem Eight Sunday After Trinity of poet John Keble
Prophet of God, arise and take With thee the words of wrath divine, The scourge of Heaven, to shake O'er yon apostate shrine. Where Angels down the lucid stair Came hovering to our sainted sires Now, in the twilight, glare The heathen's wizard fires. Go, with thy voice the altar rend, Scatter the ashes, be the arm, That idols would befriend, Shrunk at thy withering charm. Then turn thee, for thy time is short, But trace not o'er the former way, Lest idol pleasures court Thy heedless soul astray. Thou know'st how hard to hurry by, Where on the lonely woodland road Beneath the moonlight sky The festal warblings flowed; Where maidens to the Queen of Heaven Wove the gay dance round oak or palm, Or breathed their vows at even In hymns as soft as balm. Or thee, perchance, a darker spell Enthralls: the smooth stones of the flood, By mountain grot or fell, Pollute with infant's blood; The giant altar on the rock, The cavern whence the timbrel's call Affrights the wandering flock:- Thou long'st to search them all. Trust not the dangerous path again - O forward step and lingering will! O loved and warned in vain! And wilt thou perish still? Thy message given, thine home in sight, To the forbidden feast return? Yield to the false delight Thy better soul could spurn? Alas, my brother! round thy tomb In sorrow kneeling, and in fear, We read the Pastor's doom Who speaks and will not hear. The grey-haired saint may fail at last, The surest guide a wanderer prove; Death only binds us fast To the bright shore of love.