Classic Poem

There is a sound that's dear to me,
— It haunts me in my sleep;
I wake, and, if I hear it not,
— I cannot choose but weep.
Above the roaring of the wind,
— Above the river's flow,
Methinks I hear the mystic cry
— Of " Clo! — old Clo! "

The exile's song, it thrills among
— The dwellings of the free;
Its sound is strange to English ears,
— But 'tis not strange to me;
For it hath shook the tented field
— In ages long ago,
And hosts have quailed before the cry
— Of " Clo! — old Clo! "

O, lose it not! forsake it not.
— And let no time efface
The memory of that solemn sound,
— The watchword of our race;
For not by dark and eagle eye,
— The Hebrew shall ye know,
So well as by the plaintive cry
— Of " Clo! — old Clo! "

Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks,
— Or Sidon's sunny walls,
Where, dial-like, to portion time
— The palm-tree's shadow falls,
The pilgrims, wending on their way,
— Will linger as they go,
And listen to the distant cry
— Of " Clo! — old Clo! "