Long, long ago, among Judea's hills,
A shepherd-minstrel strolled on worship bent.
He loved the mossy glebe and gurgling rills;
Of these he sang with reverence as he went.
The setting sun had cast its farewell ray;
The twilight loitered in the crimson west;
Gaunt shadows crept along the sylvan way
Where sat the shepherd-minstrel down to rest.
The night came on; in thought he tarried long.
He may have dreamed a rustic's aimless dream;
But o'er his being swept a wondrous song—
A tale of joy, but with a nameless theme.
