"
=_329._=
A sweet, low voice, in starry nights,
Chants to his ear a 'plaining song;
Its tones come winding up the heights,
Telling of woe and wrong;
And he must listen, till the stars grow dim,
The song that gentle voice doth sing to him.
O, it is sad that aught so mild
Should bind the soul with bands of fear;
That strains to soothe a little child
The man should dread to hear!
But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace, unstrung
The harmonious chords to which the angels sung.
* * * * *
But he no more shall haunt the beach,
Nor sit upon the tall cliff's crown,
Nor go the round of all that reach,
Nor feebly sit him down,
Watching the swaying weeds; another day,
And he'll have gone far hence that dreadful way.
To-night the charmed number's told.
"Twice have I come for thee," it said.
"Once more, and none shall thee behold.
Come, live one, to the dead!"
So hears his soul, and fears the coming night,
Yet sick and weary of the soft, calm light.
Again he sits within that room;
All day he leans at that still board;
None to bring comfort to his gloom,
Or speak a friendly word.
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