The Voice of Scio.
A voice from Scio’s isle—
A voice of song, a voice of old
Swept far as cloud or billow roll’d,
And earth was hush’d the while—
The souls of nations woke!
Where lies the land whose hills among
That voice of victory hath not rung,
As if a trumpet spoke?
To sky, and sea, and shore,
Of those whose blood on Ilion’s plain
Swept from the rivers to the main,
A glorious tale it bore.
Still by our sun-bright deep,
With all the fame that fiery lay
Threw round them, in its rushing way,
The sons of battle sleep.
And kings their turf have crown’d!
And pilgrims o’er the foaming wave
Brought garlands there: so rest the brave,
Who thus their bard have found!
A voice from Scio’s isle,
A voice as deep hath risen again;
As far shall peal its thrilling strain,
Where’er our sun may smile!
Let not its tones expire!
Such power to waken earth and heaven,
And might and vengeance, ne’er was given
To mortal song or lyre!
Know ye not whence it comes?
—From ruin’d hearths, from burning fanes,
From kindred blood on yon red plains,
From desolated homes!
’Tis with us through the night!
’Tis on our hills, ’tis in our sky—
Hear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high
O’er the mid-waves of fight!