Memorials of a Happy Time: The Voice

A voice from ancient times comes up this way;
Dost thou not hear it — like a trumpet call?
O with what startling accents doth it fall
On ears that love a softer siren sound!
To them like muttering thunder still it seems,
Though all the sky is open, free and gay.
Month follows month, and year doth grow to year,
And the strong voice keeps waxing yet more clear.
The world is full of symptoms of decay,
Feverish and intermittent, struck with fear,
Starting unconsciously in savage dreams,
Like aged men with sickly opiates bound.
— It spake again: surely it cometh near,
Let us go out upon the tower, and hear!