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 wave From 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.
