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The Christian Year. Thoughts in Verse for the Sundays and Holidays throughout the Year. Forty-third ed. Oxford: John Henry Parker, 1853. Lyra Innocentium. Oxford: John Henry Parker, 1846. Miscellaneous Poems, by the Rev. John Keble. Oxford and London: James Parker & Co., 1869.

1 Petition to the Lord of the Manor of Merdon of Anemone, Orchis, Violet, Daffodil, Cowslip, and Primula (Miscellaneous Poems).

2 A Sister, and Fire (Lyra Innocentium, Children's Troubles).

3 Monday before Easter, st. 8 (Christian Year).

Easter Eve, st. 2 (ibid.).

5 Morning, st. 1 (ibid.).

First Sunday After Epiphany, st. 4 (ibid.).

? Fifteenth Sunday After Trinity, stanzas 1-2 (ibid.).
Twentieth Sunday After Trinity, stanzas 1-3 (ibid.).
• May Garlands (Lyra Innocentium, Children's Sports).
10 Fourth Sunday in Advent, st. 5 (Christian Year).
11 Fourth Sunday in Lent, stanzas 2, 4, 5 (ibid.).
12 Twenty-fourth Sunday After Trinity, st. 3. (ibid.).

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN

1801-1890

OXFORD logic and metaphysics, and English Church lethargy cost literature a great poet, and gained for it a great poem. Dr. Newman's earlier productions showed more of promise than performance. The first in the collection of 1868 is separated from The Dream of Gerontius, dated January 1865, which closes the volume, by a space of forty years. Naturally the contents might be expected to differ widely in character. As naturally it might be supposed that the earlier would have more of fancy and enthusiasm. On the contrary, the writer is more selfrestrained, less manifestly full of original ideas, at the commencement of his poetical career than at its end. While as yet uncertain of his theological position, doubting his old views, alarmed by the fascinations of the new, he curbed his imagination. When he had found peace at last, if not Nirvana, satisfaction at the sense of finality burst into an amazing, an amazed ecstasy, which transmuted a lake of fire into a bed of roses.

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Not that the hundred and forty-three poems which precede the Dream are without distinct charms of their own. They are devout, with a modesty and good taste which hymnology often lacks. Frequently their spirit rises so high that the reader of them feels a shock when suddenly it seems to droop and sink. Their fault is a repression, rather than an incapability, of passionateness; a determination to make poetry a property of religion, and not religion subject-matter of poetry. Compare them with

the hymns in Milman's Martyr of Antioch or Siege of Jerusalem, and the contrast is violent. Poetry is a jealous mistress. Service it may lend; it will not endure to be treated as a handmaid. It insists upon choosing its times and seasons; upon enjoying whatever society it prefers. Self-abnegation, the bowing of its will to a predetermined object, are not among its virtues. On the requisition, even by a John Henry Newman, of sacrifices of its independence, it may continue the loan of form and rhythm; inspiration ceases. The poetic instinct was always in the man, ready to operate, if allowed its liberty. He on his part was as resolved to keep its action subservient to an obligation he regarded as sovereign. Treated as a drudge the Muse turns sullen and mute. Thus the reader may have prepared for a poem as well as hymn, when fancy is seen to withdraw abruptly from the brink of a noble lyric. How easily, for example, might The Scars of Sin, Desolation, For the Dead, have been caressed into music!

Sometimes a thought is so fine that it is hard to explain the general neglect; as in Transfiguration:

I saw thee once, and nought discern'd

For stranger to admire;

A serious aspect, but it burn'd
With no unearthly fire.

Again I saw, and I confess'd

Thy speech was rare and high;
And yet it vex'd my burden'd breast,
And scared, I knew not why.

I saw once more, and awe-struck gazed
On face, and form, and air;

God's living glory round thee blazed—
A Saint-a Saint was there! 1

I doubt if many even of Newman's admirers know of

his tender Birthday Offering on the grave of his young sister!

Loveliest, meekest, blithest, kindest !
Lead! we seek the home thou findest !
Though thy name to us most dear,
Go! we would not have thee here.
Lead, a guiding beacon bright
To travellers on the Eve of Light.
Welcome aye thy Star before us,
Bring it grief or gladness o'er us ;—
Keen regret and tearful yearning,
Whiles unfelt, and whiles returning :
Or more gracious thoughts abiding,
Fever-quelling, sorrow-chiding:-
Or, when day-light blessings fail
Transport fresh as spice-fraught gale,
Sparks from thee which oft have lighted
Weary heart and hope benighted.
I this monument would raise,
Distant from the public gaze.

Few will see it ;-few e'er knew thee;
But their beating hearts pursue thee,-
And their eyes fond thoughts betoken,
Though thy name be seldom spoken.
Pass on, stranger, and despise it!

These will read, and these will prize it.2

The merits of such charming things have, I can but suppose, been smothered under the neighbouring pile of verse pressed into service as a vehicle of religious musings, often momentous, yet not poetry. In other cases the infusion of militant dogma may have denied popular acceptance to pieces otherwise fully entitled to it. Mark, for example, the light touch in the Month of Mary :

The green green grass, the glittering grove,

The heaven's majestic dome,

They image forth a tenderer bower,

A more refulgent home;

They tell us of that Paradise

Of everlasting rest,

And that high Tree, all flowers and fruit,

The sweetest, yet the best.

O Mary, pure and beautiful,
Thou art the Queen of May;

Our garlands wear about thy hair,
And they will ne'er decay.3

As bright, if more combative, is the Pilgrim Queen :
There sat a Lady all on the ground,

Rays of the morning circled her round.

Save thee and hail to thee, Gracious and Fair,

6

In the chill twilight what wouldst thou there?

Here I sit desolate,' sweetly said she,

'Though I'm a queen, and my name is Marie;
Robbers have rifled my garden and store,
Foes they have stolen my heir from my bower.
They said they could keep Him far better than I,
In a palace all His, planted deep and raised high.
'Twas a palace of ice, hard and cold as were they,
And when summer came, it all melted away.

Next would they barter Him, Him the Supreme,
For the spice of the desert, and gold of the stream;
And me they bid wander in weeds and alone,

In this green merry land which once was my own.
A moment,' she said, ' and the dead shall revive;
The giants are failing, the Saints are alive;

I am coming to rescue my home and my reign,
And Peter and Philip are close in my train.' 4

And he had indicated a gift for loftier strains, still controversial; for instance, in Refrigerium:

They are at rest;

The fire has eaten out all blot and stain,
And, convalescent, they enjoy a blest

Refreshment after pain;

Thus, to the End, in Eden's grots they lie,
And hear the fourfold river, as it hurries by.

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