 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
331
THE VOICE OF THE BROOK.
It cometh to me ever,
That melancholy voice,—
When the joyous tones of morning
Would bid my soul rejoice,
When the noontide ray has silenced
The song of bird and bee,
When the star of evening waketh
Earth's vesper melody;
It cometh to me ever,
That low and tender song,
Which the hidden brook is pouring
As it flows unseen along.
That melancholy voice,—
When the joyous tones of morning
Would bid my soul rejoice,
When the noontide ray has silenced
The song of bird and bee,
When the star of evening waketh
Earth's vesper melody;
It cometh to me ever,
That low and tender song,
Which the hidden brook is pouring
As it flows unseen along.
It cometh to me ever,
That solemn undertone:
When sounds of mirth are in the air
It seems a far-off moan;
But when sad memories awake,
And earth seems lone and drear,
Its voice of melody gives out
A hymn of holy cheer;
And sometimes, too, in moody hour
It falleth on my ear,
With a sound as of the rustling wings
Of guardian angels near.
That solemn undertone:
When sounds of mirth are in the air
It seems a far-off moan;
But when sad memories awake,
And earth seems lone and drear,
Its voice of melody gives out
A hymn of holy cheer;
And sometimes, too, in moody hour
It falleth on my ear,
With a sound as of the rustling wings
Of guardian angels near.
It cometh to me ever:
In the silent hours of night,
When my spirit comes unwilling back
From dreamland's worlds of light,
Where its golden gates are closing,
And I linger still to hear
The music of those angel harps
That claimed my sleeping ear,
Then comes the moaning of the brook,
With fancy's music blending,
Like the wail of human love and grief
'Mid seraph choirs ascending.
In the silent hours of night,
332
From dreamland's worlds of light,
Where its golden gates are closing,
And I linger still to hear
The music of those angel harps
That claimed my sleeping ear,
Then comes the moaning of the brook,
With fancy's music blending,
Like the wail of human love and grief
'Mid seraph choirs ascending.
It cometh to me ever:
Howe'er the air is stirred
With noisier sounds of busy life,
That singing brook is heard;
It cometh like the mystic voice
Which e'en mid care and strife,
Still whispers to our secret souls
A dream of holier life,—
The voice which, when on danger's brink
Our heedless feet have trod,
Has taught us that within us dwelt
The oracle of God.
Howe'er the air is stirred
With noisier sounds of busy life,
That singing brook is heard;
It cometh like the mystic voice
Which e'en mid care and strife,
Still whispers to our secret souls
A dream of holier life,—
The voice which, when on danger's brink
Our heedless feet have trod,
Has taught us that within us dwelt
The oracle of God.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |