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I waft them not alone From the deep organ of the forest shades, Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades, Till the bright day is done;

But in the human breast A thousand still small voices I awake, Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past: From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, From crush'd affections, which, though long o'erborne, Make their tones heard at last.

I bring them from the tomb: O'er the sad couch of late repentant love They pass—though low as murmurs of a dove— Like trumpets through the gloom.