It calls to me again, again;
That voice comes from a shroud.
Hist! Hist! vile heart, be still! No fear,
My angel sister's voice I hear!
It speaks to me in accents clear
And bids me shun a vile career.
She bids me meet her once again
And live in Heaven's fairest clime.
Nor shall her pleading be in vain—
Resolved, I'll do no crime.
Oh, could I feel her warm embrace
As when, in days of old,
I gazed into her angeled face—
It gave happiness untold.
Oh, let me live my boyhood days
As in the time gone by!
And let me consecrate her ways
When for this boy she'd cry.
But, hist! again the muffled tread
Comes gliding, silent as the dead,