‘Very flat, I know,’ the author says, in his usual undecorative manner; but he adds: ‘I wrote it the night before you went; I wanted to show it you, that you might do one on “He that testifieth these things saith: Surely I come quickly”; and then, after the verse, to finish with: “Even so, come, Lord JESUS.” I think that so it might make a composition on which some people’s thoughts would run.[135] You may think all this bother; but I cannot help fancying that this sort of arrangement is worth some little trouble.’ Hurrell’s poem stands collocated with Keble’s ‘Encouragement’ in the _Lyra_, with its opening ‘Fear not’: and its heartening beauty is almost a direct address to the burdened spirit who called it forth: ‘Surely the time is short: Endless the task and art To brighten for the ethereal Court A soiled earth-drudging heart! But He, the dread Proclaimer of that hour, Is pledged to thee in love, as to thy foes in power.’ Even the text from S. John, which Hurrell had suggested as colophon, stands under his separate β after Keble’s poem, in every edition, as if by some solemn little rubrical observance. Both Keble and Newman were most careful, in all these delicate ways, to preserve their friend’s least touch upon the early printed work of the Movement. It was his death which led to the revelation of the authorship of all the poems in _Lyra Apostolica_. They would else have remained strictly anonymous. ‘One of the writers in whom the work originated,’ says Newman in his very brief preface, dated at Oxford on All Saints’ Day of 1836, ‘having been taken from his friends … it seemed desirable … to record what belonged to him, while it was possible to do so; and this has led to a general discrimination of the poems, by signatures at the end of each.’ Two days after ‘Trembling Hope,’ on June 28, Hurrell sends to his old Tutor the most beautiful, and also the most characteristic of his verses. ‘DANIEL. εἰσὶν εὐνοῦχοι, οἵτινεσ εὐνούχισαν ἑαυτοὺς διὰ τὴν βασιλείαν τῶν οὐρανῶν ――S. MATT. xix. 12.[136] ‘Son of sorrow, doomed by fate To a lot most desolate, To joyless youth and childless age; Last of thy father’s lineage; Blighted being! whence hast thou That lofty mien and cloudless brow? Ask’st thou whence that cloudless brow? Bitter is the cup, I trow: A cup of weary well-spent years, A cup of sorrows, fasts, and tears; That cup whose virtue can impart Such calmness to the troubled heart. Last of his father’s lineage, he Many a night on bended knee, In hunger many a lifelong day, Hath striven to cast his slough away. Yea, and that long prayer is granted: Yea, his soul is disenchanted.