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 quail'd 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 shalt thou 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!"