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The Christian Year
by Blessed John Keble 

Seventh Sunday after Trinity. 

      From whence can a man satisfy these men with bread here in the wilderness? 
                                                                                     ST. MARK viii. 4.  

          Go not away, thou weary soul: 
          Heaven has in store a precious dole 
Here on Bethsaida's cold and darksome height. 
          Where over rocks and sands arise 
          Proud Sirion in the northern skies, 
And Tabor's lonely peak, 'twixt thee and noon-day light. 

          And far below, Gennesaret's main 
          Spreads many a mile of liquid plain, 
(Though all seem gathere'd in one eager bound,) 
          Then narrowing cleaves yon palmy lea, 
          Towards that deep sulphureous sea, 
Where five proud cities lie, by one dire sentence drown'd. 

          Landscape of fear! yet, weary heart, 
          Thou needst not in thy gloom depart, 
Nor fainting turn to seek thy distant home: 
          Sweetly thy sickening throbs are ey'd 
          By the kind Saviour at thy side; 
For healing and for balm e'en now thine hour is come. 

          No fiery wing is seen to glide, 
          No cates ambrosial are supplied, 
But one poor fisher's rude and scanty store 
          Is all He asks (and more than needs) 
          Who men and angels daily feeds, 
And stills the wailing sea-bird on the hungry shore. 

          The feast is o'er, the guests are gone, 
          And over all that upland lone 
The breeze of eve sweeps wildly as of old-- 
          But far unlike the former dreams, 
          The heart's sweet moonlight softly gleams 
Upon life's varied view, so joyless erst and cold. 

          As mountain travellers in the night, 
          When heaven by fits is dark and bright, 
Pause listening on the silent heath, and hear 
          Nor trampling hoof nor tinkling bell, 
          Then bolder scale the rugged fell, 
Conscious the more of One, ne'er seen, yet ever near: 

          So when the tones of rapture gay 
          On the lorn ear, die quite away, 
The lonely world seems lifted nearer heaven: 
          Seen daily, yet unmark'd before, 
          Earth's common paths are strewn all o'er 
With flowers of pensive hope, the wreath of man forgiven. 

          The low sweet tones of Nature's lyre 
          No more on listless ears expire, 
Nor vainly smiles along the shady way 
          The primrose in her vernal nest, 
          Nor unlamented sink to rest 
Sweet roses one by one, nor autumn leaves decay. 

          There's not a star the heaven can show, 
          There's not a cottage-hearth below, 
But feeds with solace kind the willing soul-- 
          Men love us, or they need our love; 
          Freely they own, or headless prove 
The curse of lawless hearts, the joy of self-control. 

          Then rouse thee from desponding sleep, 
          nor by the wayside lingering weep, 
Nor fear to seek Him farther in the wild, 
          Whose love can turn earth's worst and least 
          Into a conqueror's royal feast: 
Thou wilt not be untrue, thou shalt not be beguil'd.