Classic Poem

Meek autumn midnight glancing,
The stars above hold sway,
I bend, in muse advancing,
To lonesome Orr my way.

Its rush in drowsy even
Can make the waste less dead:
Short pause beneath void Heaven,
Then back again to bed!

Hoho! 'mong deserts moory,
See here the craftsman's hand;
Vain now, bleak Orr, thy fury,
On whinstone arch I stand.

Dull Orr, thou moorland river
By man's eye rarely seen,
Thou gushest on for ever,
And wert while earth has been

There o'er thy crags and gravel,
Thou sing'st an unknown song,
In tongue no clerks unravel!
Thou'st sung it long and long

From Being's Source it bounded,
The morn when time began;
Since thro' this moor has sounded,
Unheard or heard of man.

That day they crossed the Jordan,
When Hebrew trumpets rang,
Thy wave no foot was fording,
Yet here in moor it sang.

And I, while thou's meandered,
Was not, have come to be,
Apart so long have wandered,
This moment meet with thee.

Old Orr, thou mystic water!
No Ganges holier is;
That was Creation's daughter;
What was it fashioned this ?

The whinstone Bridge is builded,
Will hang a hundred year;
When bridge to time has yielded,
The brook will still be here.

Farewell, poor moorland river:
We parted and we met;
Thy journeyings are for ever,
Mine art not ended yet.