CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY.

THE CHRISTIAN YEAR

BY THE REV. JOHN KEBLE.

CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED:

_LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_.

INTRODUCTION.

JOHN KEBLE, two years older than his friend Dr. Arnold of Rugby, three years older than Thomas Carlyle, and nine years older than John Henry Newman, was born in 1792, at Fairford in Gloucestershire. He was born in his father’s parsonage, and educated at home by his father till he went to college. His father then entered him at his own college at Oxford, Corpus Christi. Thoroughly trained, Keble obtained high reputation at his University for character and scholarship, and became a Fellow of Oriel. After some years he gave up work in the University, though he could not divest himself of a large influence there for good, returned home to his old father, who required help in his ministry, and undertook for his the duty of two little curacies. The father lived on to the age of ninety. John Keble’s love for God and his devotion to the Church had often been expressed in verse. On days which the Church specially celebrated, he had from time to time written short poems to utter from the heart his own devout sense of their spiritual use and meaning. As the number of these poems increased, the desire rose to follow in like manner the while course of the Christian Year as it was marked for the people by the sequence of church services, which had been arranged to bring in due order before the minds of Christian worshippers all the foundations of their faith, and all the elements of a religious life. A book of poems, breathing faith and worship at all points, and in all attitudes of heavenward contemplation, within the circle of the Christian Year, would, he hoped, restore in many minds to many a benumbed form life and energy.

In 1825, while the poems of the Christian Year were gradually being shaped into a single work, a brother became able to relieve John Keble in that pious care for which his father had drawn him away from a great University career, and he then went to a curacy at Hursley, four or five miles from Winchester.

In 1827—when its author’s age was thirty-five—“The Christian Year” was published. Like George Herbert, whose equal he was in piety though not in power, Keble was joined to the Church in fullest sympathy with all its ordinances, and desired to quicken worship by putting into each part of the ritual a life that might pass into and raise the life of man. The spirit of true religion, with a power beyond that of any earthly feuds and controversies, binds together those in whom it really lives. Setting aside all smaller questions of the relative value of different earthly means to the attainment of a life hidden with Christ in God, Christians of all forms who are one in spirit have found help from “John Keble’s Christian Year,” and think of its guileless author with kindly affection. Within five-and-twenty years of its publication, a hundred thousand copies had been sold. The book is still diffused so widely, in editions of all forms, that it may yet go on, until the circle of the years shall be no more, living and making live.

Four years after “The Christian Year” appeared, Keble was appointed (in 1831) to the usual five years’ tenure of the Poetry Professorship at Oxford. Two years after he had been appointed Poetry Professor, he preached the Assize Sermon, and took for his theme “National Apostasy.” John Henry Newman, who had obtained his Fellowship at Oriel some years before the publication of “The Christian Year,” and was twenty-six years old when it appeared, received from it a strong impulse towards the endeavour to revive the spirit of the Church by restoring life and soul to all her ordinances, and even to the minutest detail of her ritual. The deep respect felt for the author of “The Christian Year” gave power to the sermon of 1833 upon National Apostasy, and made it the starting-point of the Oxford movement known as Tractarian, from the issue of tracts through which its promoters sought to stir life in the clergy and the people; known also as Puseyite because it received help at the end of the year 1833 from Dr. Pusey, who was of like age with J. H. Newman, and then Regius Professor of Hebrew. There was a danger, which some then foresaw, in the nature of this endeavour to put life into the Church; but we all now recognise the purity of Christian zeal that prompted the attempt to make dead forms of ceremonial glow again with spiritual fire, and serve as aids to the recovery of light and warmth in our devotions.

It was in 1833 that Keble, by one earnest sermon, with a pure life at the back of it, and this book that had prepared the way, gave the direct impulse to an Oxford movement for the reformation of the Church. The movement then began. But Keble went back to his curacy at Hursley. Two years afterwards the curate became vicar, and then Keble married. His after-life continued innocent and happy. He and his wife died within two months of each other, in the came year, 1866. He had taken part with his friends at Oxford by writing five of their Tracts, publishing a few sermons that laboured towards the same end, and editing a “Library of the Fathers.” In 1847 he produced another volume of poems, “Lyra Innocentium,” which associated doctrines of the Church with the lives of children, whom he loved, though his own marriage was childless.

The power of Keble’s verse lies in its truth. A faithful and pure nature, strong in home affections, full of love and reverence for all that is of heaven in our earthly lot, strives for the full consecration of man’s life with love and faith. There is no rare gift of genius. Keble is not in subtlety of thought or of expression another George Herbert, or another Henry Vaughan. But his voice is not the less in unison with theirs, for every note is true, and wins us by its purity. His also are melodies of the everlasting chime.

“And be ye sure that Love can bless E’en in this crowded loneliness, Where ever moving myriads seem to say, Go—thou art nought to us, nor we to thee—away!”

“There are in this loud stunning tide Of human care and crime, With whom the melodies abide Of the everlasting chime; Who carry music in their heart Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, Plying their daily task with busier feet, Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.”

With a peal, then, of such music let us ring in the New Year for our Library; and for our lives.

DEDICATION.

WHEN in my silent solitary walk, I sought a strain not all unworthy Thee, My heart, still ringing with wild worldly talk, Gave forth no note of holier minstrelsy.

Prayer is the secret, to myself I said, Strong supplication must call down the charm, And thus with untuned heart I feebly prayed, Knocking at Heaven’s gate with earth-palsied arm.

Fountain of Harmony! Thou Spirit blest, By whom the troubled waves of earthly sound Are gathered into order, such as best Some high-souled bard in his enchanted round

May compass, Power divine! Oh, spread Thy wing, Thy dovelike wing that makes confusion fly, Over my dark, void spirit, summoning New worlds of music, strains that may not die.

Oh, happiest who before thine altar wait, With pure hands ever holding up on high The guiding Star of all who seek Thy gate, The undying lamp of heavenly Poesy.

Too weak, too wavering, for such holy task Is my frail arm, O Lord; but I would fain Track to its source the brightness, I would bask In the clear ray that makes Thy pathway plain.

I dare not hope with David’s harp to chase The evil spirit from the troubled breast; Enough for me if I can find such grace To listen to the strain, and be at rest.

THE CHRISTIAN YEAR.

Morning.

His compassions fail not. They are new every morning.

HUES of the rich unfolding morn, That, ere the glorious sun be born, By some soft touch invisible Around his path are taught to swell;—

Thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay, That dancest forth at opening day, And brushing by with joyous wing, Wakenest each little leaf to sing;—

Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam, By which deep grove and tangled stream Pay, for soft rains in season given, Their tribute to the genial heaven;—

Why waste your treasures of delight Upon our thankless, joyless sight; Who day by day to sin awake, Seldom of Heaven and you partake?

Oh, timely happy, timely wise, Hearts that with rising morn arise! Eyes that the beam celestial view, Which evermore makes all things new!

New every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prove; Through sleep and darkness safely brought, Restored to life, and power, and thought.

New mercies, each returning day, Hover around us while we pray; New perils past, new sins forgiven, New thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven.

If on our daily course our mind Be set to hallow all we find, New treasures still, of countless price, God will provide for sacrifice.

Old friends, old scenes will lovelier be, As more of Heaven in each we see: Some softening gleam of love and prayer Shall dawn on every cross and care.

As for some dear familiar strain Untired we ask, and ask again, Ever, in its melodious store, Finding a spell unheard before;

Such is the bliss of souls serene, When they have sworn, and stedfast mean, Counting the cost, in all t’ espy Their God, in all themselves deny.

Oh, could we learn that sacrifice, What lights would all around us rise! How would our hearts with wisdom talk Along Life’s dullest, dreariest walk!

We need not bid, for cloistered cell, Our neighbour and our work farewell, Nor strive to wind ourselves too high For sinful man beneath the sky:

The trivial round, the common task, Would furnish all we ought to ask; Room to deny ourselves; a road To bring us daily nearer God.

Seek we no more; content with these, Let present Rapture, Comfort, Ease, As Heaven shall bid them, come and go:— The secret this of Rest below.

Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love Fit us for perfect Rest above; And help us, this and every day, To live more nearly as we pray.

Evening.

Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent.—_St. Luke_ xxiv. 29.

’TIS gone, that bright and orbèd blaze, Fast fading from our wistful gaze; You mantling cloud has hid from sight The last faint pulse of quivering light.

In darkness and in weariness The traveller on his way must press, No gleam to watch on tree or tower, Whiling away the lonesome hour.

Sun of my soul! Thou Saviour dear, It is not night if Thou be near: Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise To hide Thee from Thy servant’s eyes!

When round Thy wondrous works below My searching rapturous glance I throw, Tracing out Wisdom, Power and Love, In earth or sky, in stream or grove;—

Or by the light Thy words disclose Watch Time’s full river as it flows, Scanning Thy gracious Providence, Where not too deep for mortal sense:—

When with dear friends sweet talk I hold, And all the flowers of life unfold; Let not my heart within me burn, Except in all I Thee discern.

When the soft dews of kindly sleep My wearied eyelids gently steep, Be my last thought, how sweet to rest For ever on my Saviour’s breast.

Abide with me from morn till eve, For without Thee I cannot live: Abide with me when night is nigh, For without Thee I dare not die.

Thou Framer of the light and dark, Steer through the tempest Thine own ark: Amid the howling wintry sea We are in port if we have Thee.

The Rulers of this Christian land, ’Twixt Thee and us ordained to stand,— Guide Thou their course, O Lord, aright, Let all do all as in Thy sight.

Oh! by Thine own sad burthen, borne So meekly up the hill of scorn, Teach Thou Thy Priests their daily cross To bear as Thine, nor count it loss!

If some poor wandering child of Thine Have spurned to-day the voice divine, Now, Lord, the gracious work begin; Let him no more lie down in sin.

Watch by the sick: enrich the poor With blessings from Thy boundless store: Be every mourner’s sleep to-night, Like infants’ slumbers, pure and light.

Come near and bless us when we wake, Ere through the world our way we take; Till in the ocean of Thy love We lose ourselves, in Heaven above.

Advent Sunday.

Now it is high time to awake out of sleep: for now is our salvation nearer than when we believed.—_Romans_ xiii 11.

AWAKE—again the Gospel-trump is blown— From year to year it swells with louder tone, From year to year the signs of wrath Are gathering round the Judge’s path, Strange words fulfilled, and mighty works achieved, And truth in all the world both hated and believed.

Awake! why linger in the gorgeous town, Sworn liegemen of the Cross and thorny crown? Up from your beds of sloth for shame, Speed to the eastern mount like flame, Nor wonder, should ye find your King in tears, E’en with the loud Hosanna ringing in His ears.

Alas! no need to rouse them: long ago They are gone forth to swell Messiah’s show: With glittering robes and garlands sweet They strew the ground beneath His feet: All but your hearts are there—O doomed to prove The arrows winged in Heaven for Faith that will not love!

Meanwhile He passes through th’ adoring crowd, Calm as the march of some majestic cloud, That o’er wild scenes of ocean-war Holds its still course in Heaven afar: E’en so, heart-searching Lord, as years roll on, Thou keepest silent watch from Thy triumphal throne:

E’en so, the world is thronging round to gaze On the dread vision of the latter days, Constrained to own Thee, but in heart Prepared to take Barabbas’ part: “Hosanna” now, to-morrow “Crucify,” The changeful burden still of their rude lawless cry.

Yet in that throng of selfish hearts untrue Thy sad eye rests upon Thy faithful few, Children and childlike souls are there, Blind Bartimeus’ humble prayer, And Lazarus wakened from his four days’ sleep, Enduring life again, that Passover to keep.

And fast beside the olive-bordered way Stands the blessed home where Jesus deigned to stay, The peaceful home, to Zeal sincere And heavenly Contemplation dear, Where Martha loved to wait with reverence meet, And wiser Mary lingered at Thy sacred feet.

Still through decaying ages as they glide, Thou lov’st Thy chosen remnant to divide; Sprinkled along the waste of years Full many a soft green isle appears: Pause where we may upon the desert road, Some shelter is in sight, some sacred safe abode.

When withering blasts of error swept the sky, And Love’s last flower seemed fain to droop and die, How sweet, how lone the ray benign On sheltered nooks of Palestine! Then to his early home did Love repair, And cheered his sickening heart with his own native air.

Years roll away: again the tide of crime Has swept Thy footsteps from the favoured clime Where shall the holy Cross find rest? On a crowned monarch’s mailèd breast: Like some bright angel o’er the darkling scene, Through court and camp he holds his heavenward course serene.

A fouler vision yet; an age of light, Light without love, glares on the aching sight: Oh, who can tell how calm and sweet, Meek Walton, shows thy green retreat, When wearied with the tale thy times disclose, The eye first finds thee out in thy secure repose?

Thus bad and good their several warnings give Of His approach, whom none may see and live: Faith’s ear, with awful still delight, Counts them like minute-bells at night. Keeping the heart awake till dawn of morn, While to her funeral pile this aged world is borne.

But what are Heaven’s alarms to hearts that cower In wilful slumber, deepening every hour, That draw their curtains closer round, The nearer swells the trumpet’s sound? Lord, ere our trembling lamps sink down and die, Touch us with chastening hand, and make us feel Thee nigh.

Second Sunday in Advent.

And when these things begin to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth night. _St. Luke_ xxi. 28.

NOT till the freezing blast is still, Till freely leaps the sparkling rill, And gales sweep soft from summer skies, As o’er a sleeping infant’s eyes A mother’s kiss; ere calls like these, No sunny gleam awakes the trees, Nor dare the tender flowerets show Their bosoms to th’ uncertain glow.

Why then, in sad and wintry time, Her heavens all dark with doubt and crime, Why lifts the Church her drooping head, As though her evil hour were fled? Is she less wise than leaves of spring, Or birds that cower with folded wing? What sees she in this lowering sky To tempt her meditative eye?

She has a charm, a word of fire, A pledge of love that cannot tire; By tempests, earthquakes, and by wars, By rushing waves and falling stars, By every sign her Lord foretold, She sees the world is waxing old, And through that last and direst storm Descries by faith her Saviour’s form.

Not surer does each tender gem, Set in the fig-tree’s polish’d stem, Foreshow the summer season bland, Than these dread signs Thy mighty hand: But, oh, frail hearts, and spirits dark! The season’s flight unwarn’d we mark, But miss the Judge behind the door, For all the light of sacred lore:

Yet is He there; beneath our eaves Each sound His wakeful ear receives: Hush, idle words, and thoughts of ill, Your Lord is listening: peace, be still. Christ watches by a Christian’s hearth, Be silent, “vain deluding mirth,” Till in thine alter’d voice be known Somewhat of Resignation’s tone.

But chiefly ye should lift your gaze Above the world’s uncertain haze, And look with calm unwavering eye On the bright fields beyond the sky, Ye, who your Lord’s commission bear His way of mercy to prepare: Angels He calls ye: be your strife To lead on earth an Angel’s life.

Think not of rest; though dreams be sweet, Start up, and ply your heavenward feet. Is not God’s oath upon your head, Ne’er to sink back on slothful bed, Never again your loans untie, Nor let your torches waste and die, Till, when the shadows thickest fall, Ye hear your Master’s midnight call?

Third Sunday in Advent.

What went ye out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken with the wind? . . . But what went ye out for to see? A prophet? yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophet. _St. Matthew_ xi. 7, 9.

WHAT went ye out to see O’er the rude sandy lea, Where stately Jordan flows by many a palm, Or where Gennesaret’s wave Delights the flowers to lave, That o’er her western slope breathe airs of balm.

All through the summer night, Those blossoms red and bright Spread their soft breasts, unheeding, to the breeze, Like hermits watching still Around the sacred hill, Where erst our Saviour watched upon His knees.

The Paschal moon above Seems like a saint to rove, Left shining in the world with Christ alone; Below, the lake’s still face Sleeps sweetly in th’ embrace Of mountains terrac’d high with mossy stone.

Here may we sit, and dream Over the heavenly theme, Till to our soul the former days return; Till on the grassy bed, Where thousands once He fed, The world’s incarnate Maker we discern.

O cross no more the main, Wandering so will and vain, To count the reeds that tremble in the wind, On listless dalliance bound, Like children gazing round, Who on God’s works no seal of Godhead find.

Bask not in courtly bower, Or sun-bright hall of power, Pass Babel quick, and seek the holy land— From robes of Tyrian dye Turn with undazzled eye To Bethlehem’s glade, or Carmel’s haunted strand.

Or choose thee out a cell In Kedron’s storied dell, Beside the springs of Love, that never die; Among the olives kneel The chill night-blast to feel, And watch the Moon that saw thy Master’s agony.

Then rise at dawn of day, And wind thy thoughtful way, Where rested once the Temple’s stately shade, With due feet tracing round The city’s northern bound, To th’ other holy garden, where the Lord was laid.

Who thus alternate see His death and victory, Rising and falling as on angel wings, They, while they seem to roam, Draw daily nearer home, Their heart untravell’d still adores the King of kings.

Or, if at home they stay, Yet are they, day by day, In spirit journeying through the glorious land, Not for light Fancy’s reed, Nor Honour’s purple meed, Nor gifted Prophet’s lore, nor Science’ wondrous wand.

But more than Prophet, more Than Angels can adore With face unveiled, is He they go to seek: Blessèd be God, Whose grace Shows Him in every place To homeliest hearts of pilgrims pure and meek.

Fourth Sunday in Advent.

The eyes of them that see shall not be dim, and the ears of them that hear shall hearken. _Isaiah_ xxxii. 3

OF the bright things in earth and air How little can the heart embrace! Soft shades and gleaming lights are there— I know it well, but cannot trace.

Mine eye unworthy seems to read One page of Nature’s beauteous book; It lies before me, fair outspread— I only cast a wishful look.

I cannot paint to Memory’s eye The scene, the glance, I dearest love— Unchanged themselves, in me they die, Or faint or false their shadows prove.

In vain, with dull and tuneless ear, I linger by soft Music’s cell, And in my heart of hearts would hear What to her own she deigns to tell.

’Tis misty all, both sight and sound— I only know ’tis fair and sweet— ’Tis wandering on enchanted ground With dizzy brow and tottering feet.

But patience! there may come a time When these dull ears shall scan aright Strains that outring Earth’s drowsy chime, As Heaven outshines the taper’s light.

These eyes, that dazzled now and weak, At glancing motes in sunshine wink. Shall see the Kings full glory break, Nor from the blissful vision shrink:

In fearless love and hope uncloyed For ever on that ocean bright Empowered to gaze; and undestroyed, Deeper and deeper plunge in light.

Though scarcely now their laggard glance Reach to an arrow’s flight, that day They shall behold, and not in trance, The region “very far away.”

If Memory sometimes at our spell Refuse to speak, or speak amiss, We shall not need her where we dwell Ever in sight of all our bliss.

Meanwhile, if over sea or sky Some tender lights unnoticed fleet, Or on loved features dawn and die, Unread, to us, their lesson sweet;

Yet are there saddening sights around, Which Heaven, in mercy, spares us too, And we see far in holy ground, If duly purged our mental view.

The distant landscape draws not nigh For all our gazing; but the soul, That upward looks, may still descry Nearer, each day, the brightening goal.

And thou, too curious ear, that fain Wouldst thread the maze of Harmony, Content thee with one simple strain, The lowlier, sure, the worthier thee;

Till thou art duly trained, and taught The concord sweet of Love divine: Then, with that inward Music fraught, For ever rise, and sing, and shine.

Christmas Day.

And suddenly there was with the Angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God. _St. Luke_ ii. 13.

WHAT sudden blaze of song Spreads o’er th’ expanse of Heaven? In waves of light it thrills along, Th’ angelic signal given— “Glory to God!” from yonder central fire Flows out the echoing lay beyond the starry choir;

Like circles widening round Upon a clear blue river, Orb after orb, the wondrous sound Is echoed on for ever: “Glory to God on high, on earth be peace, And love towards men of love—salvation and release.”

Yet stay, before thou dare To join that festal throng; Listen and mark what gentle air First stirred the tide of song; ’Tis not, “the Saviour born in David’s home, To Whom for power and health obedient worlds should come:”—

’Tis not, “the Christ the Lord:” With fixed adoring look The choir of Angels caught the word, Nor yet their silence broke: But when they heard the sign where Christ should be, In sudden light they shone and heavenly harmony.

Wrapped in His swaddling bands, And in His manger laid, The Hope and Glory of all lands Is come to the world’s aid: No peaceful home upon his cradle smiled, Guests rudely went and came, where slept the royal Child.

But where Thou dwellest, Lord, No other thought should be, Once duly welcomed and adored, How should I part with Thee? Bethlehem must lose Thee soon, but Thou wilt grace The single heart to be Thy sure abiding-place.

Thee, on the bosom laid Of a pure virgin mind, In quiet ever, and in shade, Shepherd and sage may find; They, who have bowed untaught to Nature’s sway, And they, who follow Truth along her star-paved way.

The pastoral spirits first Approach Thee, Babe divine, For they in lowly thoughts are nursed, Meet for Thy lowly shrine: Sooner than they should miss where Thou dost dwell, Angela from Heaven will stoop to guide them to Thy cell.

Still, as the day comes round For Thee to be revealed, By wakeful shepherds Thou art found, Abiding in the field. All through the wintry heaven and chill night air, In music and in light Thou dawnest on their prayer.

O faint not ye for fear— What though your wandering sheep, Reckless of what they see and hear, Lie lost in wilful sleep? High Heaven in mercy to your sad annoy Still greets you with glad tidings of immortal joy.

Think on th’ eternal home, The Saviour left for you; Think on the Lord most holy, come To dwell with hearts untrue: So shall ye tread untired His pastoral ways, And in the darkness sing your carol of high praise.

St. Stephen’s Day.

He, being full of the Holy Ghost, looked up steadfastly into heaven, and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing on the right hand of God. _Acts_ vii. 55