There are voices sweet in the echoing wood,
And tones by the streamlet's shore;
A musical chime thrills on every breeze,
Then dies, and we hear it no more.
they tell us of eloquence and of its power
As it sweeps like a spell o'er the soul,
But give me the language that hath not a word,
Yes, give me its magic control.
There's a voice in the spring-time, telling of life--
Of a life that is glorious and free,
That speaks of a spirit unfettered by sin,
And tells us of what we may be.
There's a voice in the summer; sweetly it steals
O'er the spirit and hushes the best;
Those wild storms of sorrow that deluge the soul,
And tells to the weary of rest.
There's a voice in the autumn, sadly it takes
A low thrilling dirge for its lay,
And sings of the beautiful, lovely, and fair,
As they're passing forever away.
Then the hoarse tones of winter, chillingly drear,
Tell of no fairy dream life,
But that in earth's warfare, if heroes we'd be,
That each must take part in the strife.
We stand where the murmurs of varied tones
In unceasing harmony blend--
God's wordless preachers, hymning to man
The love of his Father and Friend.
There's a voice in the streamlet, and far deeper tones
In the rolling psalm of the sea;
The palm in its pride and the violet sweet,
O man, have a lesson for thee.
