Classic Poem

A voice from the dead must have warbled the strain
Which raises old times thus in vision again;
And friends who were waiting the dread trumpet's blast,
Have left their cold graves at this Voice from the past.

The melody swells—'tis the voice of gone years,
Now kindling to rapture—now melting to tears;
And age's drear sky with dark sorrows o'ercast,
Is lit by youth's sun, by this Voice from the past.

Gay visions surround me—I feel me a boy,
My mother's pale face flushes crimson with joy;
I kiss her—I press her—sweet vision, oh last!
Or waft me to heaven on this Voice from the past.

The melody fades, hark! it mounts far on high,
A seraph is singing a lay of the sky,
To lead up the soul when the frame's sinking fast—
'Twas thine, O my mother! this lay of the past.