John Keble · 39 of 110
Monday in Easter Week — St. Peter and Cornelius
Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons: but in every nation he that feareth Him, and worketh , is accepted with Him. Acts x. 34, 35.
Go up and watch the new-born rill Just trickling from its mossy bed, Streaking the heath-clad hill With a bright emerald thread.
Canst thou her bold career foretell, What rocks she shall o’erleap or rend, How far in Ocean’s swell Her freshening billows send?
Perchance that little brook shall flow The bulwark of some mighty realm, Bear navies to and fro With monarchs at their helm.
Or canst thou guess, how far away Some sister nymph, beside her urn Reclining night and day, ’Mid reeds and mountain fern,
Nurses her store, with thine to blend When many a moor and glen are past, Then in the wide sea end Their spotless lives at last?
E’en so, the course of prayer who knows? It springs in silence where it will, Springs out of sight, and flows At first a lonely rill:
But streams shall meet it by and by From thousand sympathetic hearts, Together swelling high Their chant of many parts.
Unheard by all but angel ears The good Cornelius knelt alone, Nor dream’d his prayers and tears Would help a world undone.
The while upon his terrac’d roof The lov’d Apostle to his Lord In silent thought aloof For heavenly vision soar’d.
Far o’er the glowing western main His wistful brow was upward rais’d, Where, like an angel’s train, The burnish’d water blaz’d.
The beside the ocean pray’d, This soldier in his chosen bower, Where all his eye survey’d Seem’d sacred in that hour.
To each unknown his brother’s prayer, Yet brethren true in dearest love Were they — and now they share Fraternal joys above.
There daily through Christ’s open gate They see the spirits press, Brightening their high estate With dearer happiness.
What civic wreath for comrades sav’d Shone ever with such deathless gleam, Or when did perils brav’d So sweet to veterans seem?