Those gloried ghosts, whose brows we know,
Nor I o’er change and distance throw,
In midmost prayer, an arm that clings,
Ah then, the deep-toned bell that rings
I shall not hear, nor hear whatso
The clear young voice triumphant sings,
At Easter-tide, when lilies blow!
TO-DAY.
Voice, with what emulous fire thou singest free hearts of old fashion,