Preview: John Keble's "Silent Solitary Walk"

As we've been discussing John Keble's poems inspired by the readings and/or feasts of the liturgy, I've commented that they are not the greatest poetry in the English language but that they are well-composed and thoughtful compositions. In 1887, when Cassell and Company, London, published an edition of The Christian Year, the anonymous editor commented on Keble's verse, comparing and contrasting it to that of George Herbert or Henry Vaughan:

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.

On Monday, August 10 on the Son Rise Morning Show, we'll examine the introductory poem, "Dedication" in which Keble admitted that he knew his limits; he can't compete with David or a "high-souled bard" like Herbert or Vaughan; he is feeble, "earth-palsied", wavering, and frail. Nevertheless, he seeks inspiration in prayer:

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.

I warned Anna Mitchell that I would try to resist my English Major enthusiasm, but the mention of George Herbert and Henry Vaughan proved too much. One of my favorite English Lit classes was English 522A "Donne & the Metaphysical Poets", taught by the late Professor Frank Kastor (RIP) in the Spring of 19-- at Wichita State University. 

From Pastor Herbert: "Prayer (I)" in which each image invites meditation:

Prayer the church's banquet, angel's age,
God's breath in man returning to his birth,
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,
The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth
Engine against th' Almighty, sinner's tow'r,
Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
The six-days world transposing in an hour,
A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear;
Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss,
Exalted manna, gladness of the best,
Heaven in ordinary, man well drest,
The milky way, the bird of Paradise,
Church-bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood,
The land of spices; something understood.

And from Henry Vaughan, "Peace":

My Soul, there is a country
Afar beyond the stars,
Where stands a winged sentry
All skillful in the wars;
There, above noise and danger
Sweet Peace sits, crown’d with smiles,
And One born in a manger
Commands the beauteous files.
He is thy gracious friend
And (O my Soul awake!)
Did in pure love descend,
To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flow’r of peace,
The rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges,
For none can thee secure,
But One, who never changes,
Thy God, thy life, thy cure.