Classic Poem

The night is stirred with liquid murmurings,
That ripple softly through the silent hour,
As in a placid pool the dimpled rings
Curve round the broken petals of a flower.

From the gray steeple pointing to the stars,
Dim in the darkling cluster of old trees,
The golden notes pour through the belfry bars
And fill the air with choral harmonies.

Over the moonlit hills they come and go;
Over the misty fields they melt and die;
Over the glimmering river, sweet and low,
Floating and failing on the night-wind's sigh;

Re-moaning through the arches of the wood,
Like the last breathings of the organ's tone,
When in an old cathedral's solitude
A pilgrim lingers there to pray alone;

Mingling faint echoes with the bubbling fall
Of waters in deep glens and lonely dells,
As at the close of some bright festival
Soft strains of music blend with low farewells;

Whispering sweet dreams in many a sleeper's ear—
Incarnate memories of other years;
Speaking with voices he no more shall hear,
So thaThe starts and wakes in happy tears.