There are murmurs round me stealing, murmurs of the glad and gay, Like the distant sound of music, floating up the azure way, Catching sweetness in the valley, gathering beauty on the hill, And, when melted into distance, playing through our bosoms still.
For they come like old companions, with thy sweet familiar name, Yet to tell me they are faithful; as when first of old they came, To my weary heart to cheer me, when the wild and willful bird Of glad song had hushed her music, and her voice no more was heard.
They have floated through my bosom, lovely forms they have defined, Claiming richest gifts of person, and most glorious ones of mind,— That have shone around and sparkled, from their high and jeweled throne, Till my heart was stirred within me, by a glory not its own.
From my childhood I have worshiped that high intellectual power, Which, while pouring gems around us in profuse and golden shower, To the toil-worn and the weary when affliction draweth nigh, Yieldeth forth a sweet refreshment, when they almost pine to die.
As a fountain in the desert, when the storm clouds onward roll, Giveth life, and health, and vigor, to the parched and thirsty soul, So the well of mind will strengthen, when our strength is almost gone, And amidst this living desert we have wandered far alone.
Not all lonely have I wandered, not unanswered have I sung, For thy voice, like gladdest music, ever on my ear hath rung; In the lone and far-off valley—on the rugged mountain side, To whate'er my thoughts have wandered, thou wast ever found beside.
Oft in fancy we have traveled o'er the fields of Palestine, Seen a thousand armors gleaming, seen a thousand lances shine, Followed with our eyes the banners of the stern and high crusade, When the lion-hearted Richard, into dust the lion laid.
High above the holy city, with her thousand"minarets, Gleaming in the silent moonlight, like a sun that never sets, Seen the banners of the crescent, looking upwards toward the sky, While afar, in stern defiance, waved the red-cross flag on high.
Though the minstrel band hath sung them, and the minstrel eye have seen, And the minstrel heart hath loved them, for the glories that have been, Like to fancy's wayside children, still they gleam before the eye, Claiming for themselves a tribute, though that tribute be a sigh.
Not alone the days of knighthood hath our wandering fancy claimed, Yet a feeling binds us to them, that the present hath not named; And the past is but a specter, haunting with a warning head, Every palace of the living, from the chambers of the dead.
And it reads to us a lesson it were wise in us to learn, Of the thousands gone before us, of the gentle and the stem: From the empire worn and wasted, to the single rose-leaf shed, There are foot-prints left to guide us, took we lessons of the dead.
And the faithful Christian soldier, with his helmet and his shield, Ever ready for the combat, ever ready for the field, Shadows forth the hurrying Present, where the armies of the heart, Moslem host and Christian soldier, strive for the better part.
Hark! the tread of armed foemen, rushing onward to the fight: In the crowded noontide hour, in the stillness of the night. Louder, louder yet the trumpet pealeth forth its warning tone; Pointing upward, ever upward, to the fountain-head above.
We hare heard it—oft-rimes heard it; and amidst the hurrying throng, Some glad tone of young affection, pouring its sweet stream along! To the way-worn and the weary breathing words of life and lore, Pointing upward, ever upward, to the fountain- head above.
It hath gathered strength and terror, it hath gathered sweetness too, Since the world of syn and shadow burst upon our infant view; It hath been a star of promise shining o'er a weary way, Singing, singing: rough the darkness, like a bird at break of day!
We hare heard it on the hillside, when together side by side, We hare watched the white clouds moving in the pleasant eventide, Pictured forth their strange, appearance, through imagination's eye, When for our beloved country, fought the warriors of the sky.
Oft beneath the tall, dark cedars of our first; and far-off home We have heard it through our bosoms like a gush of music come; When the earnest stars were looking from their silent homes above, There hath breathed a whisper round us, and that single word was love!
There hath been an angel with us; 'neath the darkly-shining tree,— We have heard the sound of pinions rustling round us joyfully; Heard them in the voice of waters—heard them in the thrilling song Of the wild bird on the mountain;—may it linger with us long!
May it hover round us ever! leading to that only shrine; Through a world of sin and sorrow, we have need of light divine, Aiding every first endeavor—making e'en affliction dear, May we feel that earth is hallowed!—there hath been an angel here!
