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Sweet is the infant's waking smile, And sweet the old man's rest-- But middle age by no fond wile, No soothing calm is blest.

In silence, . . . Steals on soft-handed Charity, Tempering her gifts, that seem so free, By time and place, Till not a woe the bleak world see, But finds her grace.

Look in, and see Christ's chosen saint In triumph wear his Christ-like chain; No fear lest he should swerve or faint; "His life is Christ, his death is gain."

Feast of John Keble, Priest, Poet, Tractarian, 1866 Sun of my soul, Thou Savior dear, It is not night if Thou be near; O may no earth-born cloud arise To hide Thee from thy servant's eyes.

Once you make up your mind never to stand waiting and hesitating when your conscience tells you what you ought to do, and you have got the key to every blessing that a sinner can reasonably hope for.

EPIPHANY If on our daily course our mind Be set to hallow all we find, New treasures still of countless price God will provide for sacrifice. 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.

Feast of John Keble, Priest, Poet, Tractarian, 1866 The deaf may hear the Saviour's voice, The fettered tongue its chains may break; But the deaf heart, the dumb by choice, The laggard soul that will not wake, The guilt that scorns to be forgiven -- These baffle e'en the spells of heaven.

But when eve's silent footfall steals Along the eastern sky, And one by one to earth reveals Those purer fires on high.

God hath sworn to lift on high Who sinks himself by true humility.

Sprinkled along the waste of years Full many a soft green isle appears: Pause where we may upon the desert road, Some shelter is in sight, some sacred safe abode.

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

Pride of the dewy morning, The swain's experienced eye From thee takes timely warning. Nor trusts the gorgeous sky. - John Keble,

And taught by thee the Church prolongs Her hymns of high thanksgiving still.