Voices from the far Death-plain--
Not thus speaks she from the Past.

Peace! yet--for though she speaks not
From her Paradise in thee,
Whispers nevermore to me
In my lonely misery,
Oh! that loved voice ne'er forgot,
Thou dost wake my brooding soul,
Smit'st it till the bitter dole
Breaks aloud beyond controul,
While the briny tear-drops roll,
Drowning, cries which she hears not.

Cruel Bell! harsh Bell! ring on,
I shall turn my heart to stone,
Flinging back thy mocking tone,
Callous of thy deepest moan
Lying Bell! thy power is gone!
Spake she from her golden cloud,
Spake she to my heart aloud,
Every murmur of her voice,
Would bid my lone heart rejoice;
Every murmur of her voice,
Ah! would make my heart rejoice,
Lying Bell! thy power is gone.