John Henry Newman (1801–1890)

THEY are at rest:

We may not stir the heaven of their repose

With loud-voiced grief or passionate request,

Or selfish plaint for those

Who in the mountain grots in Eden lie,

And hear the four-fold river, as it hurries by.

They hear it sweep

In distance down the dark and savage vale;

But they at eddying pool or current deep

Shall never more grow pale;

They hear, and meekly muse, as fain to know

How long untired, unspent, that giant stream shall flow.

And soothing sounds

Blend with the neighbouring waters as they glide;

Posted along the haunted garden’s bounds

Angelic forms abide,

Echoing, as words of watch, o’er lawn and grove,

The verses of that hymn which Seraphs chant above.