The Trumpets

The trumpets were calling me over the hill, And I was a boy and knew nothing of men; But they filled all the vale with their clangorous trill, And flooded the gloom of the glen. “The trumpets,” I cried, “Lo, they call from afar, They are mingled with music of bugle and drum; The trumpets, the trumpets are calling to war, The trumpets are calling -- I come.” The trumpets were calling me over the Range, And I was a youth and was strong for the strife; And I was full fain for the new and the strange, And mad for the tumult of life. And I heard the loud trumpets that blew for the fray, In the spell of their magic and madness was dumb; And I said, “I will follow by night and by day, The trumpets are calling -- I come.” The trumpets were calling and I was a man, And had faced the stern world and grown strong; And the trumpets mere calling far off, and I ran Toward the blare of their mystical song. And they led me o’er mountains, ‘neath alien skies, All else but their music was dumb; And I ran till I fell, and slept but to rise, Lo, the trumpets are calling -- I come. The trumpets are calling, I’ve come to the sea, But far out in the moon-lighted glow, I still hear the trumpets, they’re calling to me, The trumpets are calling -- I go. And lo, a strange boatman is here with his bark, And he takes me and rows away, silent and dumb; But my trumpets! my trumpets! they peal through the dark, The trumpets are calling -- I come.