The Lay of the Levite.

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!”

Oh, 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 you 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!”