Here you will find the Long Poem Monday In Whitsun-Week of poet John Keble
Since all that is not Heaven must fade, Light be the hand of Ruin laid Upon the home I love: With lulling spell let soft Decay Steal on, and spare the giant sway, The crash of tower and grove. Far opening down some woodland deep In their own quiet glade should sleep The relics dear to thought, And wild-flower wreaths from side to side Their waving tracery hang, to hide What ruthless Time has wrought. Such are the visions green and sweet That o'er the wistful fancy fleet In Asia's sea-like plain, Where slowly, round his isles of sand, Euphrates through the lonely land Winds toward the pearly main. Slumber is there, but not of rest; There her forlorn and weary nest The famished hawk has found, The wild dog howls at fall of night, The serpent's rustling coils affright The traveller on his round. What shapeless form, half lost on high, Half seen against the evening sky, Seems like a ghost to glide, And watch, from Babel's crumbling heap, Where in her shadow, fast asleep, Lies fallen imperial Pride? With half-closed eye a lion there Is basking in his noontide lair, Or prowls in twilight gloom. The golden city's king he seems, Such as in old prophetic dreams Sprang from rough ocean's womb. But where are now his eagle wings, That sheltered erst a thousand kings, Hiding the glorious sky From half the nations, till they own No holier name, no mightier throne? That vision is gone by. Quenched is the golden statue's ray, The breath of heaven has blown away What toiling earth had piled, Scattering wise heart and crafty hand, As breezes strew on ocean's sand The fabrics of a child. Divided thence through every age Thy rebels, Lord, their warfare wage, And hoarse and jarring all Mount up their heaven-assailing cries To Thy bright watchmen in the skies From Babel's shattered wall. Thrice only since, with blended might The nations on that haughty height Have met to scale the Heaven: Thrice only might a Seraph's look A moment's shade of sadness brook - Such power to guilt was given. Now the fierce bear and leopard keen Are perished as they ne'er had been, Oblivion is their home: Ambition's boldest dream and last Must melt before the clarion blast That sounds the dirge of Rome. Heroes and kings, obey the charm, Withdraw the proud high-reaching arm, There is an oath on high: That ne'er on brow of mortal birth Shall blend again the crowns of earth, Nor in according cry Her many voices mingling own One tyrant Lord, one idol throne: But to His triumphs soon HE shall descend, who rules above, And the pure language of His love, All tongues of men shall tune. Nor let Ambition heartless mourn; When Babel's very ruins burn, Her high desires may breathe; - O'ercome thyself, and thou mayst share With Christ His Father's throne, and wear The world's imperial wreath.