The Voice

&nbsp       &nbspAs the kindling glances,
&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspQueen-like and clear,
&nbsp       &nbspWhich the bright moon lances
&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspFrom her tranquil sphere
&nbsp       &nbspAt the sleepless waters
&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspOf a lonely mere,
On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,
&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspShiver and die.

&nbsp       &nbspAs the tears of sorrow
&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspMothers have shed—
&nbsp       &nbspPrayers that to-morrow
&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspShall in vain be sped
&nbsp       &nbspWhen the flower they flow for
&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspLies frozen and dead—
Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast,
&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspBringing no rest.

&nbsp       &nbspLike bright waves that fall
&nbsp       &nbspWith a lifelike motion
On the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean;
A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall—
A gush of sunbeams through a ruin'd hall—
Strains of glad music at a funeral—
&nbspSo sad, and with so wild a start
&nbspTo this deep-sober'd heart,
&nbspSo anxiously and painfully,
&nbspSo drearily and doubtfully,
And oh, with such intolerable change
&nbspOf thought, such contrast strange,
O unforgotten voice, thy accents come,
Like wanderers from the world's extremity,
&nbspUnto their ancient home!

In vain, all, all in vain,
They beat upon mine ear again,
Those melancholy tones so sweet and still.
Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year
&nbspDid steal into mine ear—
Blew such a thrilling summons to my will,
Yet could not shake it;
Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill,
Yet could not break it.