26
poems.
ECHO.
"I came to the place of my birth, and said, 'The friends of my childhood, where are they?' and echo answered, 'Where are they?'"
The many voices of the past,
How fall their strains upon the ear?
Come they a spell of grief to cast,
Or with their tones the heart to cheer?
We hear them in the mighty wind,
That roars in mournful cadence round;
And sometimes, too, the heart may find
Breathed on the ear a softer sound.
How fall their strains upon the ear?
Come they a spell of grief to cast,
Or with their tones the heart to cheer?
We hear them in the mighty wind,
That roars in mournful cadence round;
And sometimes, too, the heart may find
Breathed on the ear a softer sound.
The voices from our childhood's home,
Oh! are they noiseless all, and still?
Who there in changeless truth still roam?
Who yet their wonted stations fill?
They come amid the shades of night,—
The loved, the cherished "household band,"
And bursting on the mental sight,
In long and hushed array, they stand.
Oh! are they noiseless all, and still?
Who there in changeless truth still roam?
Who yet their wonted stations fill?
They come amid the shades of night,—
The loved, the cherished "household band,"
And bursting on the mental sight,
In long and hushed array, they stand.
The father's step is moving there;
The mother's look of love is given,
True, true, as when her early prayer
First for her child, was raised to Heaven.
And other forms are gliding by,
Who shared my childhood's hopes and fears.
The mother's look of love is given,
True, true, as when her early prayer
First for her child, was raised to Heaven.
And other forms are gliding by,
Who shared my childhood's hopes and fears.
