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!' O 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!' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH [OR ENGLISH] SAILOR [BOY] by THOMAS CAMPBELL THE BELLS OF SHANDON by FRANCIS SYLVESTER MAHONY WINTER SLEEP by EDITH MATILDA THOMAS SUMMER SONG: 1 by GEORGE BARKER A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 9 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |