SPIRIT VOICES. BY GEORGE W. LAMB. In the silent greenwood glade, There are sweet low voices singing, And they haunt me ever. In the star-crowned, quiet night, Ringing from the moonlit height, Whispering from the vale, From the swinging, leafy bough, And the dewy flowers below, Murmuring still their tale. SPIRIT VOICES. 'Tis of days long passed away, 'Tis of forms now cold in clay These sweet voices tell. At the memories they bring, Old friends again about me stand, Better far than words can do Tell that hearts are warm and true And, as these sweet visions throng, On the charmed air swell, And strike upon the dreaming brain Ever thus in greenwood glade And in the deep forest shade And by the rushing river, There are sweet, low voices singing, And they haunt me ever. 171 GATHERING OF THE COVENANTERS. BY GEORGE F. MAGOUN. No proud cathedral bell the prayer-call bearing, All sights and sounds, and their true hearts unerring The sunset-wane of day's resplendent glory, "To prayer! To prayer!" The breeze that waved the meek, dew-dripping flowers, And breathed inspiring fragrance on the air, A murmur sent through all their blossomy bowers, "To prayer! To prayer!" GATHERING OF THE COVENANTERS. 173 Not mid the pomp of serried arch and column Wild, and yet Sabbath-like! Huge rocky masses Were piled that yawning cavern-temple round, Where the fierce earthquake in its rifting passes A home had found! The Patriarch came, his long white locks revealing The mother came. Of scarce a year. Her woman's heart will falter As priestly hands her baptized infant lift, And still the white-robed maidens at the altar Blush at the gift! * * * Stay!-A swift banner-plaid went flashing High o'er the rocky verge with sudden gleam, And sullenly a heavy stone fell plashing Upon the stream! Up! worshippers! unto your Eyrie dwelling And lo! while fiery curse and imprecation Their foam-flecked crests o'er hill and valley flinging, While high above, unheard amid the thunder, That spirit reigneth still! So, Christian, waging raging Oh! trust in God! |