Thy spirit cannot wear the chain that those who live must wear, Nor hear the sigh of them who breathe the dungeon’s noisome air, Nor shudder at the orphan’s wail, whose mother is a slave, Nor see her wo, whose only prayer is for the peaceful grave. Yet hear me, spirit of my boy!—the grief that sheds no tear, The gaping wounds of thy poor clay, call thee, this vow to hear: That when from friends and country driven, my spell word still shall be, Hatred of those who made thee thus, hatred of tyranny. And oh! if e’er a day will come, when roused to hope Our scattered bands will close once more in battle on this plain, Thy name, through all the swaying ranks, heard echoing o’er the fray, Will fire anew each patriot heart to win a glorious day. * * * * * THE PHANTOM VOICE. BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. “A low bewildering melody is murmuring in my ear.” “_It is a phantom voice_: Again!—again! how solemnly it falls Into my heart of hearts!” SCENES FROM “POLITION.” Through the solemn hush of midnight, How sadly on my ear Falls the echo of a harp whose tones I never more may hear! A wild, unearthly melody, Whose monotone doth move, The saddest, sweetest cadences Of sorrow and of love. Till the burden of remembrance weighs Like lead upon my heart, And the shadow on my soul that sleeps Will never more depart. The ghastly moonlight gliding, Like a phantom through the gloom, How it fills with solemn fantasies My solitary room! And the sighing winds of Autumn, Ah! how sadly they repeat That low, bewildering melody, So mystically sweet! I hear it softly murmuring At midnight on the hill, Or across the wide savannas, When all beside is still. I hear it in the moaning Of the melancholy main— In the rushing of the night-wind— The “rhythm of the rain.” E’en the wild-flowers of the forest, Waving sadly to and fro, But whisper to my boding heart, The burden of its wo. And the spectral moon, (now paling And fading) seems to say— “I leave thee to remembrances That will not pass away.” Ah, through all the solemn midnight, How mournful ’tis to hark To the voices of the silence— The whisper of the dark! In vain I turn some solace From the constant stars to crave:— They are shining on thy sepulchre, Are smiling on thy grave. How I weary of their splendor! All night long they seem to say, “We are lonely—sad and lonely— Far away—far, far away!” Thus through all the solemn midnight, That phantom voice I hear, As it echoes through the silence When no earthly sound is near.