It was in 1833 that Keble, by one earnest sermon, with a pure life at the back of it, and this book that had prepared the way, gave the direct impulse to an Oxford movement for the reformation of the Church. The movement then began. But Keble went back to his curacy at Hursley. Two years afterwards the curate became vicar, and then Keble married. His after-life continued innocent and happy. He and his wife died within two months of each other, in the came year, 1866. He had taken part with his friends at Oxford by writing five of their Tracts, publishing a few sermons that laboured towards the same end, and editing a “Library of the Fathers.” In 1847 he produced another volume of poems, “Lyra Innocentium,” which associated doctrines of the Church with the lives of children, whom he loved, though his own marriage was childless. 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. “And be ye sure that Love can bless E’en in this crowded loneliness, Where ever moving myriads seem to say, Go—thou art nought to us, nor we to thee—away!” “There are in this loud stunning tide Of human care and crime, With whom the melodies abide Of the everlasting chime; Who carry music in their heart Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, Plying their daily task with busier feet, Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.” With a peal, then, of such music let us ring in the New Year for our Library; and for our lives. _January_ 1, 1887. H. M. DEDICATION. 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.