A poem by the young John Henry Newman, aged 17

SOLITUDE

THERE is in stillness oft a magic power

To calm the breast, when struggling passions lower;

Touch'd by its influence, in the soul arise

Diviner feelings, kindred with the skies.

By this the Arab's kindling thoughts expand,

When circling skies inclose the desert sand;

For this the hermit seeks the thickest grove,

To catch th' inspiring glow of heavenly love.

It is not solely in the freedom given

To purify and fix the heart on heaven;

There is a Spirit singing aye in air,

That lifts us high above all mortal care.

No mortal measure swells that mystic sound,

No mortal minstrel breathes such tones around,—

The Angels' hymn,—the sovereign harmony

That guides the rolling orbs along the sky,—

And hence perchance the tales of saints who view'd

And heard Angelic choirs in solitude.

By most unheard,—because the earthly din

Of toil or mirth has charms their ears to win.

Alas for man! he knows not of the bliss,

The heaven that brightens such a life as this.

Oxford. Michaelmas Term, 1818.