ng hymn, "New every morning is the love," is taken
from a poem of sixteen verses. The first line reads, "O timely happy,
timely wise." It contains the two oft quoted stanzas that ought to be
treasured in the heart of every Christian:

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

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.

The evening hymn is also taken from a longer poem, in which the author
first describes in graphic words the setting of the sun:

'Tis gone! that bright and orbed blaze,
Fast fading from our wistful gaze;
Yon mantling cloud has hid from sight
The last faint pulse of quivering light.

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

Then comes the beautiful and reassuring thought:

Sun of my soul! Thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou be near!
O may no earthborn cloud arise
To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes.

The peculiar tenderness in Keble's poetry is beautifully illustrated in
the second stanza:

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

Other familiar hymns by Keble are "The Voice that breathed o'er Eden,"
"Blest are the pure in heart," and "When God of old came down from
heaven."

The Hymn of a Perplexed Soul

Lead, kindly light, amid th' encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home;
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

John Henry Newman,