Poems (Eckley)/The Voice

by Sophia May Eckley

For works with similar titles, see The Voice.

THE VOICE.

VOICE is whisp'ring through the pines,
 Secret to all but me;
Naught can'st thou hear but quivering leaves—
 No words are heard by thee.

The hum and din of earthly strife
 Ring louder on thine ear,
And drown the tender words that fall
 On memory's sacred bier.

Long, long ago that same sweet voice
 Was heard upon a sea;
'Twas borne on tempest through the storm,
 O'er waves of Galilee.

That voice is whisp'ring thro' the pines—
 That same sweet voice to me;
It says, "Lift up thy burdened heart,
 Thy Saviour speaks to thee;

"Take off the withered buds that lie
 Faded on memory's bier,
And lay fresh lilies on the pall,
 Nor one regretful tear;

"And bind fresh roses on thy brow,
 With myrtle interleaved,
And amaranth and immortelle
 In chaplet interweaved."

And hear the voice, that thro' the pines
 Is speaking still to me
In whispers thro' the quivering leaves,—
 "My peace I give to thee."