Classic Poem

A voice is heard in the winds and waves,
In the sound of the ever-rolling sea;
'T is whispered amid the gloom of graves,
And it speaks from the hill-top loud and free:
'T is murmuring in every breath of air,
And it pauses not when the leaves are still;
Where the waters are falling, it prattles there,
And it whistles along the heathery hill.

Up on the brown and briery steep,
When the bramble stirs with the nestling bird,
Down in the green and glassy deep,
When the coral rustles, that voice is heard:
Far it is borne on the summer breeze,
O'er sunny meadow and flowery plain;
Then it steals to the glancing trees,
And is lost in their shadowy gloom again.

Hark! its wandering echoes wake; —
They are now in the heart of the rifted rock;
Now they lie on the slumbering lake;
Now are at play with the bounding flock.
Not a withering leaf by the wind is stirred,
Not a murmur moves through the bending corn,
But far that summoning voice is heard,
Like the loud, clear notes of the winding horn.

O, 't is a voice that comes from Heaven,
Borne like a spirit in light along,
Now like the rush of a tempest driven,
Murmuring now in the charm of song.
Hear ye the voice? — then come away
Far from the haunts of ruder men, —
Come, where the leaves and fountains play; —
You may love and be happy then.