I ope my voice, not with the organ's tone,
Deep, solemn and majestic; not with sounds
Of trump or drum, that cheer armed squadrons on,
In coats of steel, o'er lines of bloody grounds,
Nor is my tone, the tone of rushing storms,
That sweep in mad career through forests tall,
Up-tearing gnarled oaks, with sounds of hellish forms,
That bode destruction black, and death to all.
Nor is it yet the screaming warrior, loud,
With hand upraised to mouth, hyena-strong,