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THE MAID'S LAMENT.

I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone,

I feel I am alone.

I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,
Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him; I now would give
My love could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and, when he found
"Twas vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death!

I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me! but mine returns,
And this lorn bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years
Wept he as bitter tears!

"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer,

"These may she never share!"

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold
Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,
His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,
And, oh! pray, too, for me!

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JOHN KEBLE was born in 1789, and died in April, 1866, having reached the "good old age" of seventy-seven years. His father was a country clergyman at Fairford. At an early period the youth was entered at Corpus Christi, Oxford; and in 1810 obtained “a double first" in classics and in mathematics. He was then elected Fellow of Oriel, where his name did not appear on the prize list for two years. In 1812 he won three prizes, for an English Essay, a Latin Essay, and a Translation from Dead Languages. Whilst at College he was constantly in contact with Coplestone, Whately, and Davison, but " he found more congenial acquaintances in Froude, Newman, and the Wilberforces." "The Christian Year" was published in 1827. "The greater part had already existed some time in albums;" "some of the poems were the produce of a few hours." Keble was averse to their publication, for “in those days and in that small circle it was thought objectionable to publish even a sermon actually preached." "All who were then at Oxford remember the effect achieved by these poems." "Men read them, and shortly found that without one conscious effort at learning they could say every word." "The Christian Year" has reached its eightieth edition!

Of his other work-the "Lyra Innocentium "-his friend Justice Coleridge thus writes: "It was published early, I think, in 1846; it has passed through many editions, but it has not met with the same general acceptance as The Christian Year." It contains, however, many compositions of great beauty.

He was not eminent as a preacher; he did not, that is to say, aim at eloquence, being generally content to attain conviction. On that head, we accept the evidence of his friend Justice Coleridge: "He had not, in the popular sense, great gifts of delivery; his voice was not powerful, nor was his ear perfect for harmony of sound; but I think it was difficult not to be impressed deeply both by his reading and his preaching; when he read, you saw that he felt, and he made you feel, that he was the servant of God, delivering His words, or leading you, as one of like infirmities and sins with your own, in your prayers. When he preached, it was with an affectionate simplicity and hearty earnestness which were very moving; and the sermons themselves were at all times full of that abundant Scriptural knowledge which was the most remarkable quality in him as a divine."

He was twice chosen Public Examiner, twice Select Preacher, and assisted at a Board of Examiners In 1831 he succeeded Milman as Professor of Poetry, which he held for the usual term of ten years.

They mourned his loss most who knew him best, but there were tens of thousands who never saw him to whom his removal brought grief; "deep it was, tender, universal, testified not alone by those who had been his pupils, friends, or disciples, or who shared his opinions--not alone by Churchmen-not alone by the educated; it was the solemn and sincere sorrow of all who had come within the influence of his teaching or example; and what a comprehensive circumference is that!"

It has been well said of him, "there never was a man of whom it is more true that he was made for the church." Yet he attained to none of its dignities: it was his destiny to fill the role of a parish priest all his life, and to see men infinitely his inferiors in piety, in learning, and even in popularity, carry off the professional honours to which he was so justly entitled; and although his poems have been bought by hundreds of thousands, and were so profitable that "his church of Hursley (of which he was Vicar), near Winchester, was repaired and beautified" entirely from the profits of their sale, it can scarcely be said that he obtained merited fame until after death. Since then there is scarcely a publication in the kingdom that has not contained a memoir of him; and a monument to his memory will soon be erected in Westminster Abbey.

It is, unhappily, in accordance with long-established English custom, to render homage to genius and worth only when "the charmer" can be no more heard. Keble was what is called a "High Churchman." His more intimate associates were those who are considered to weaken rather than to strengthen the English church; but of his genuine piety there is no doubt; while there is abundant testimony to the charity as well as the zeal with which he exercised his lofty calling: he was a Christian gentleman as well as a faithful clergyman; his poems are ignored by no sect, nor by any party, scarcely by a single individual who professes the religion of Christ, and they will endure to delight, to refresh, and to invigorate Christians to the end of time.

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WHERE is Thy favour'd haunt, eternal Voice, The region of Thy choice,

Where, undisturb'd by sin and earth, the soui Owns Thy entire control ?

'Tis on the mountain's summit dark and high, When storms are hurrying by:

'Tis 'mid the strong foundations of the earth, Where torrents have their birth.

No sounds of worldly toil ascending there,
Mar the full burt of prayer;

Lone Nature feels that she may freely breathe,
And round us and beneath

Are heard her sacred tones: the fitful sweep
Of winds across the steep,

Through wither'd bents--romantic note and clear,
Meet for a hermit's ear,-

The wheeling kite's wild solitary cry,
And, scarcely heard so high,

The dashing waters when the air is still
From many a torrent rill

That winds unseen beneath the shaggy fell,
Track'd by the blue mist well:

Such sounds as make deep silence in the heart
For Thought to do her part.

THE NIGHTINGALE

LESSONS Sweet of spring returning.
Welcome to the thoughtful heart!
May I call ye sense or learning,

Instinct pure, or Heaven-taught art?
Be your title what it may,
Sweet the lengthening April day,
While with you the soul is free,.

Ranging wild o'er hill and lea.

Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
To the inward ear devout,

Touch'd by light, with heavenly warning

Your transporting chords ring out.

Every leaf in every nook,

Every wave in every brook,

Chanting with a solemn voice,

Minds us of our better choice.

Needs no show of mountain hcary,
Winding shore or deepening glen,
Where the landscape in its glory
Teaches truth to wandering men ;

Give true hearts but earth and sky,
And some flowers to bloom and die,
Homely scenes and simple views
Lowly thoughts may best infuse.

See the soft green willow springing
Where the waters gently pass,
Every way her free arms flinging

O'er the moist and reedy grass.
Long ere winter blasts are fled,
See her tipped with vernal red,
And her kindly flower display'd
Ere her leaf can cast a shade.

Though the rudest hand assail her,
Patiently she droops awhile,
But when showers and breezes hail her,
Wears again her willing sinile.
Thus I learn Contentment's power
From the slighted willow bower,
Ready to give thanks and live

On the least that Heaven may give.

If, the quiet brooklet leaving,
Up the stony vale I wind,
Haply half in fancy grieving

For the shades I leave behind,
By the dusty wayside drear,
Nightingales with joyous cheer
Sing, my sadness to reprove,
Gladlier than in cultur'd grove.

Where the thickest boughs are twining
Of the greenest darkest tree,

There they plunge, the light declining-

All may hear, but none may see.

Fearless of the passing hoof,

Hardly will they fleet aloof;

So they live in modest ways,

Trust entire, and ceaseless praise.

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