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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421237" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Third Sunday In Lent</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">See Lucifer like lightning fall,<br> Dashed from his throne of pride;<br> While, answering Thy victorious call,<br> The Saints his spoils divide;<br> This world of Thine, by him usurped too long,<br>Now opening all her stores to heal Thy servants' wrong.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> So when the first-born of Thy foes<br> Dead in the darkness lay,<br> When Thy redeemed at midnight rose<br> And cast their bonds away,<br> The orphaned realm threw wide her gates, and told<br>Into freed Israel's lap her jewels and her gold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And when their wondrous march was o'er,<br> And they had won their homes,<br> Where Abraham fed his flock of yore,<br> Among their fathers' tombs; -<br> A land that drinks the rain of Heaven at will,<br>Whose waters kiss the feet of many a vine-clad hill; -</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Oft as they watched, at thoughtful eve,<br> A gale from bowers of balm<br> Sweep o'er the billowy corn, and heave<br> The tresses of the palm,<br> Just as the lingering Sun had touched with gold,<br>Far o'er the cedar shade, some tower of giants old;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> It was a fearful joy, I ween,<br> To trace the Heathen's toil,<br> The limpid wells, the orchards green,<br> Left ready for the spoil,<br> The household stores untouched, the roses bright<br>Wreathed o'er the cottage walls in garlands of delight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And now another Canaan yields<br> To Thine all-conquering ark: -<br> Fly from the &quot;old poetic&quot; fields,<br> Ye Paynim shadows dark!<br> Immortal Greece, dear land of glorious lays,<br>Lo! here the &quot;unknown God&quot; of thy unconscious praise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The olive-wreath, the ivied wand,<br> &quot;The sword in myrtles drest,&quot;<br> Each legend of the shadowy strand<br> Now wakes a vision blest;<br> As little children lisp, and tell of Heaven,<br>So thoughts beyond their thought to those high Bards were given.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And these are ours: Thy partial grace<br> The tempting treasure lends:<br> These relies of a guilty race<br> Are forfeit to Thy friends;<br> What seemed an idol hymn, now breathes of Thee,<br>Tuned by Faith's ear to some celestial melody.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> There's not a strain to Memory dear,<br> Nor flower in classic grove,<br> There's not a sweet note warbled here,<br> But minds us of Thy Love.<br> O Lord, our Lord, and spoiler of our foes,<br>There is no light but Thine: with Thee all beauty glows.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Keble">John Keble</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421237" data-title="Third Sunday In Lent de John Keble" data-description="See Lucifer like lightning fall,
 Dashed from his throne of pride;
 While, answering Thy victorious call,
 The Saints his spoils divide;
 This world of Thine, by him usurped too long,
Now opening all her stores to heal Thy servants' wrong.

 So wh..."></div>
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