Classic Poem

A RE there not voices, strangely sweet,
And tones of music strangely dear;
So lovingly the soul they greet,
So kindly steal they on the ear.

We know not why they strike so deep,
We can not tell the secret spring
Within us, which they wake from sleep,
Nor how such thoughts their notes can bring.

We ask not why nor how they thrill
So keenly through the inmost soul;
And why, when ceased, we listen still,
As though they yet upon us stole.

We feel the sweetness of the voice;
We love the richness of the tone;
It makes us sorrow or rejoice,
Compelling us its power to own.

Are there not words, too, strangely sweet,
Thoughts, musings, memories, strangely dear?
So lovingly the soul they greet,
So gently steal they on the ear!

Common the words may be and weak,
The passing stranger owns them not;
To other ears in vain they speak,
Unknown, unrelished, or forgot.

Rich in old thoughts, these words appear,
Part of our being's mighty whole;
Linked with our life's strange story here,
Knit to each feeling of our soul.

Linked with the scenes of days gone past,
With all life's earnest hopes and fears;
Linked with the smiles that did not last,
The joys and griefs of faded years.

Linked with old dreams once dreamt in youth,
When dreams were gladder, truer things;
When each night's vision of bright truth,
Lent to each buoyant day its wings.

Linked with the whisper of the trees,
When summer eves were fair and still;
Set to the music of the breeze,
Or murmur of the twilight rill.

Linked with some scene of sacred calm,
Of holy places, holy days;
Linked with the prayer, the hymn, the psalm,
The multitude's glad voice of praise.

Linked with the names of holy men,
Martyr, or saint, or brother dear;
Some parted, ne'er to meet again,
Some still our fellow-pilgrims here.

Linked with that name of names, the name
Of Him who bought us with his blood;
Who bore for us the wrath and shame,
The Virgin's Son, the Christ of God.