John Keble

Here you will find the Poem Second Sunday After Easter of poet John Keble

Second Sunday After Easter

O for a sculptor's hand,
 That thou might'st take thy stand,
Thy wild hair floating on the eastern breeze,
 Thy tranced yet open gaze
 Fixed on the desert haze,
As one who deep in heaven some airy pageant sees.

 In outline dim and vast
 Their fearful shadows cast
This giant forms of empires on their way
 To ruin: one by one
 They tower and they are gone,
Yet in the Prophet's soul the dreams of avarice stay.

 No sun or star so bright
 In all the world of light
That they should draw to Heaven his downward eye:
 He hears th' Almighty's word,
 He sees the angel's sword,
Yet low upon the earth his heart and treasure lie.

 Lo! from you argent field,
 To him and us revealed,
One gentle Star glides down, on earth to dwell.
 Chained as they are below
 Our eyes may see it glow,
And as it mounts again, may track its brightness well.

 To him it glared afar,
 A token of wild war,
The banner of his Lord's victorious wrath:
 But close to us it gleams,
 Its soothing lustre streams
Around our home's green walls, and on our church-way path.

 We in the tents abide
 Which he at distance eyed
Like goodly cedars by the waters spread,
 While seven red altar-fires
 Rose up in wavy spires,
Where on the mount he watched his sorceries dark and dread.

 He watched till morning's ray
 On lake and meadow lay,
And willow-shaded streams that silent sweep
 Around the bannered lines,
 Where by their several signs
The desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep.

 He watched till knowledge came
 Upon his soul like flame,
Not of those magic fires at random caught:
 But true Prophetic light
 Flashed o'er him, high and bright,
Flashed once, and died away, and left his darkened thought.

 And can he choose but fear,
 Who feels his GOD so near,
That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue
 In blessing only moves? -
 Alas! the world he loves
Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung.

 Sceptre and Star divine,
 Who in Thine inmost shrine
Hash made us worshippers, O claim Thine own;
 More than Thy seers we know -
 O teach our love to grow
Up to Thy heavenly light, and reap what Thou hast sown.