SONG
.
WHAT
voice
is
this
,
thou
evening
gale
!
That
mingles
with
thy
rising
wail
;
And
,
as
it
passes
,
sadly
seems
The
faint
return
of
youthful
dreams
?
Though
now
its
strain
is
wild
and
drear
,
Blythe
was
it
once
as
sky-lark's
cheer
—
Sweet
as
the
night-bird's
sweetest
song
—
Dear
as
the
lisp
of
Infant's
tongue
.
It
was
the
voice
,
at
whose
sweet
flow
The
heart
did
beat
,
and
cheek
did
glow
,
And
lip
did
smile
,
and
eye
did
weep
,
And
motioned
love
the
measure
keep
.
Oft
be
thy
sound
,
soft
gale
of
even
,
Thus
to
my
wistful
fancy
given
;
And
,
as
I
list
the
swelling
strain
,
The
dead
shall
seem
to
live
again
.