The Wandering Spirit

There's a voice that is heard in the depth of the sky,
Where nothing is seen, but the blue-tinted Heaven;
That voice with the wind rolls its mellowness by,
And a few notes alone to our fond ears are given:
The spirit, who sings it, still hastens away,
He is doomed round the wide earth for ever to roam,
He may settle a moment, but never will stay,
For he ne'er found, and never will find here a home.

There is grief in the voice, as it comes through the air,
Like the low-moaning wind in the calmness of Even,
Or the tone, as we dream, of the angels, who bear
The pure soul, that rises to mingle with Heaven;
It was clear, when it first came, but quickly afar
It murmured and died, like the wave on the shore,
When the mariner hails the benevolent star,
That rises and smiles, and the tempest is o'er.

O! that voice is the dirge, that for ever is sung
O'er the wreck and the ruin of beauty and love,
But in ears that are deaf, is its melody flung,
There are none, who will listen, but pure ones above:
O! Earth is no place for the spirit, who feels
Every wound of the heart with the pang of despair,
He will mourn and be never at home, till he steals
To the skies, and the bright world, that welcomes him there.