Across that calm, like gales of balm
Some low, sweet household voices ran,
Thrilling, like flute notes straying out
From land to sea some stormy night,
The ear that listens for the shout
Of drowning boatman lost to sight,
And died away again so soon
The pulseless air seemed fallen in a swoon.
Once, pure and clear,
Clarion strains fell on the ear:
The preacher rent the soulless creeds,
And pierced men's hearts with arrowy words,
Yet failed to stir them to good deeds—
Their new-fledged thoughts, like July birds,
Soared on the air and glanced away
Before the eloquent voice could stay.
"'Tis very sad, the man is mad,"
The men and women gaily said
As they laughing tread their homeward road,
Talking of other holidays;
Of last year how it rained or snowed,
Who went abroad, who wed a blaze
Of diamonds with his sickly bride,
On certain days—and who had died.
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