Classic Poem

Your voice, that once was wont to go before us,
Calling our steps, as Pan his flocks in Spring,
Faltered at clash of War's discordant chorus
And ceased to sing.

Though, thro' the night of turmoil and of sorrow,
No ling'ring melody has touched our ear,
Yet have we waited, knowing that the morrow
Should find you near.

The morning breaks! and from your lonely dwelling
You haste to greet us! Echoing sweet and strong,
We hear, with outstretch'd arms and bosom swelling,
The old, glad song.