Here you will find the Poem First Sunday After Easter of poet John Keble
First Father of the holy seed, If yet, invoked in hour of need, Thou count me for Thine own Not quite an outcast if I prove, (Thou joy'st in miracles of love), Hear, from Thy mercy-throne! Upon Thine altar's horn of gold Help me to lay my trembling hold, Though stained with Christian gore; - The blood of souls by Thee redeemed, But, while I roved or idly dreamed, Lost to be found no more. For oft, when summer leaves were bright, And every flower was bathed in light, In sunshine moments past, My wilful heart would burst away From where the holy shadow lay, Where heaven my lot had cast. I thought it scorn with Thee to dwell, A Hermit in a silent cell, While, gaily sweeping by, Wild Fancy blew his bugle strain, And marshalled all his gallant train In the world's wondering eye. I would have joined him--but as oft Thy whispered warnings, kind and soft, My better soul confessed. "My servant, let the world alone - Safe on the steps of Jesus' throne Be tranquil and be blest." "Seems it to thee a niggard hand That nearest Heaven has bade thee stand, The ark to touch and bear, With incense of pure heart's desire To heap the censer's sacred fire, The snow-white Ephod wear?" Why should we crave the worldling's wreath, On whom the Savour deigned to breathe, To whom His keys were given, Who lead the choir where angels meet, With angels' food our brethren greet, And pour the drink of Heaven? When sorrow all our heart would ask, We need not shun our daily task, And hide ourselves for calm; The herbs we seek to heal our woe Familiar by our pathway grow, Our common air is balm. Around each pure domestic shrine Bright flowers of Eden bloom and twine, Our hearths are altars all; The prayers of hungry souls and poor, Like armed angels at the door, Our unseen foes appal. Alms all around and hymns within - What evil eye can entrance win Where guards like these abound? If chance some heedless heart should roam, Sure, thought of these will lure it home Ere lost in Folly's round. O joys, that sweetest in decay, Fall not, like withered leaves, away, But with the silent breath Of violets drooping one by one, Soon as their fragrant task is done, Are wafted high in death!