A VOICE.Also in thy skirts is found the blood of the souls of the poor Innocents."—Jer. ii. 34.
VOICE comes wailing o'er the waveFrom the dear land afar;
Alas! my country, that such wails
Should reach us here of war;
A trumpet note, a dread appeal,
That shakes the throbbing world,
Until the march of human hearts
Stands still—the banners furled!
There was a vase, a golden vase
Hid in that forest green,
Held by a chain, but cloud-wrought links,
Now melted into rain—
The rain of human tears that fall,
Because that vase is broken,
In fragments lie the shattered bits,
Mournful and sad a token.
Hid in that forest green,
Held by a chain, but cloud-wrought links,
Now melted into rain—
The rain of human tears that fall,
Because that vase is broken,
In fragments lie the shattered bits,
Mournful and sad a token.
